


Blue Ocean Floor

by BarqueBatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Modern Era, Spells & Enchantments, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarqueBatch/pseuds/BarqueBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based upon the tumblr prompt from ineffableboyfriends:</p><p>"Magical realism where Sherlock has to erase John’s memory to save him but Sherlock stays in London and has to watch John going about his life knowing that John wouldn’t remember the years they had together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Noise

"You will guarantee his life?"

"Yes. We will continue this little dance but your pet will be left out of it. It's by my hand though, Sherlock. No exceptions."

"You will not touch him."

"Won't need to. Only way to know for sure. Take it or leave it; you decide."

^~^~~~^^~~~^~^

When he found John, the dark blue eyes that met his were instantly relieved. "There you are. Look, I searched that whole back lot and there's nothing; no one's been back there in ages, Sherlock."

John's eyes were so unguarded toward him, so open and trusting. Sherlock knew he didn't deserve this stunning soldier. The knowledge that John deserved a much better life twisted painfully in Sherlock's chest. Now maybe he could attain all the things he could never hope to have at Baker Street. Stability. Safety. A girlfriend that he could grow to love and maybe have a family with.

"I suspected as such," Sherlock rasped as that last thought brought bile up in his throat. "I believe I've found something in the maintenance building though." He whirled and let his long strides propel him forward, causing John to jog along in his wake. He knew John had no desire for a family but that could be more because their life held no place for a child. He'd seen the way John cared for children that were unfortunate enough to be caught in their cases. Always kind and at ease with them and they often responded to him in kind when they would not even speak to any of the Yarders who were trained to look after them. Now he would have the opportunity to choose.

"So you really believe Moriarty is here somewhere?"

"Yes."

He opened the dilapidated door for John. The doctor shot him a curious glance from the corner of his eye as he approached, clearly expecting more of an answer from Sherlock, but he walked past Sherlock and into the room without any hesitance at all. He stopped abruptly once his eyes adjusted to the low light that filtered through the dust in the air. Moriarity stood silently by the far window, his hands hidden inside the trouser pockets of his expensive silk suit and his stance loose.

"Sherlock!" John jerked in surprise but then his first instinct was to block Sherlock's body with his own as he immediately pulled his gun. The Sig's barrel was cleanly leveled at Moriarty's head with no tremor disrupting John's aim. The criminal kingpin only cracked a smile then looked beyond John in some sort of silent signal. Sherlock couldn't help but flinch as two rifles locked loudly behind them. John's grip upon Sherlock tightened as his right hand wavered. His shouldered sagged and he lowered the gun, clicked on the safety and dropped it to the floor.

"Care to explain the situation or shall I?"

Sherlock couldn't push any noise from his aching throat so Moriarty's smile grew. "You see John, I've made it clear to Sherlock that the only way you're leaving here alive today is with his cooperation. I'm tired of sharing. It was only mildly irritating before but then you two had to take the next step after the pool. Bit of a miscalculation on my part there, I'll admit, but we're going to fix that little problem right now."

John's hand found Sherlock's. "How..? What do you want this time?"

"You... gone. Permanently."

John squared his shoulders. "I won't leave him just because you're threatening me. I'll stay as long as he wants me."

"And that would be where his cooperation comes into play, right Sherlock?"

His jaw clenching as he tried to comprehend, John turned to face Sherlock. The detective's eyes were downcast and he would not raise them to meet John's questioning stare.  
"Sherlock...? What's he talking about?"

"I'm sorry, John."

"No..." John's voice cracked, splitting the single syllable into two desperate sounds. "No. Don't be sorry. Just look at me."

Sherlock finally raised tortured eyes to John. Those eyes always reminded him of the stormy channel waters when John was angry. "You can only live if you forget me. Forget us. I would rather that happen than watch you die at his hands, John."

"Not going to happen," John snapped. "I won't do it."

"You won't have a choice, John," Sherlock muttered, his hands fisting inside his Belstaff. "He placed the decision with me and I have already agreed. Your memories of me... us... they will be deleted. The spell will also affect those around you that knew me and knew about us."

"Sherlock..." John's voice dropped off as he reigned himself in, bringing as much control over his temper as he could. "After the pool... when we became a couple... we promised each other... no more manipulations. No more lying. No more unilateral decisions. We are a team. We do this together or not at all."

"I may very well be sick right now," Moriarty drawled and John spun on him.

"You shut your fucking mouth," he snarled. "You can't win fairly against Sherlock so you're taking the coward's way out. You'll always be second best, James Moriarty."

"If that were true, Sherlock would have found a way to eliminate me already."

John pursed his lips and turned back to Sherlock. His efforts were far better spent there. "This isn't the answer. You're stronger than he is. You could wipe this whole building off the face of the earth if you wanted to. Just do it now. If we go with him, at least we go together but for Godsakes, Sherlock, just take him out!"

"I can't kill you, John."

"You send me back to a life without you and you've done it anyway," John answered flatly.

"You're strong, John," Sherlock whispered. "You'll survive."

"But I won't live," John smiled sadly. "Not really."

"Forgive me, John... I can't bury you."

"Who will watch your back, you git," John tried to reason, gripping Sherlock's arms.

"It won't matter. You'll be alive. It will be enough, John."

"Will it?"

Sherlock's eyes clouded then filled. "No."

"Then don't do this!" John gave him a hard shake but Sherlock stepped away, carefully pulling his arms free. He glanced at Moriarty then fixed his eyes back upon John's.

"I... I love you John."

John stared at him then a miserable, pained laugh bubbled up from his chest as he shook his head in disbelief. "Now you tell me...? Now?"

"I needed you to know," Sherlock gasped, feeling like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs. "At least for a moment, I needed you to know."

"You idiot," John sighed. "I know. I've always known. I've just been waiting for you to work up the nerve to say so."

"John-"

"I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock wanted to rush forward and touch John, draw him close and draw the air from his mouth, because he felt like he was drowning. In that moment though, Moriarty stepped forward and barely brushed his fingertips over John's crown. John's eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled. Sherlock caught him, but knew it was too late. Their life together was now over and this was no longer his John. He held John tightly to his chest but refused to shed his tears in front of anyone. He'd failed John, but now the fierce doctor could no longer be used against him. He'd be safe.

"Come along, Sherlock," Moriarty called. "Can't have you here making puppy dog eyes at your pet when he wakes."

Moran hauled Sherlock to his feet, dislodging John from his arms in the process. Growling, Sherlock turned and smashed his fist into Moran's jaw. The punch knocked the brute off balance but had little effect otherwise. The blonde mercenary smirked at Sherlock but the detective was crouching down again and ignoring him. He pulled John upward again and pressed his cheek to John's. "Let your heart remember even if your mind does not," he whispered into John's ear. He placed a kiss to John's temple then to his lips before laying him back down, careful to ease his skull gently to the floor.

"He can't be left alone," Sherlock frowned.

"Mary," Moriarty called and gestured. A petite young woman with short blonde hair emerged from the side room. A nurse. Gentle but sharp eyes. Single.  
Sherlock's brain stuttered to a halt and his lips curled up in a feral snarl. 

"This was not part of our deal."

"The deal is what I make it, Sherlock," Moriarty explained almost patiently. "Easiest way to keep an eye on your good doctor. Don't worry a bit though. Mary's quite happy to take one for the team. She'll have a rather large bank account for it and won't mind spoiling your pet a bit with it providing he behaves. He'll be perfectly happy." He eyed Sherlock intently then held out his hand. Moran stepped forward and handed him a pistol which he then held out to Sherlock. "If you don't think you can handle the thought of her fucking his brains out every night then you may as well have the honors yourself."

Sherlock recoiled from the gun and fixed the nurse with the whole of his fury. "You harm him and I will kill every last one of you... slowly. I will write sonnets on the walls with your blood and toss your heads on Lestrade's desk myself."

With a roll of his eyes, Moriarty pointed the gun at John's head. "Leave before he wakes, my dear, or deal's off."

Sherlock stared at John for a long, agonizing moment before backing away. His back bumped against the door and he turned sharply to throw it open and flee the horror of what he'd just done. The burning in his chest was maddening even as the rest of him grew horribly numb. He couldn't fathom life without John now. He was the center of Sherlock's world despite Sherlock's devotion to casework. Without the sunlight of John's caring, the shadows were closing in around him setting off a claustrophobic response. He tore the scarf from his neck as he gulped for air, stumbling sideways as he kept walking further from the abandoned factory and his beloved doctor.

Hours later, a filthy but warm blanket would be draped over him as he curled against the base of the Vauxhall Bridge and openly sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's not going to be just one chapter. I can't for the life of me do unresolved angst, at least not this time. You can still leave off here though if you're a glutton for heartbreak. ;)


	2. Heart On A String

Mycroft watched the feed as a young woman guided John Watson into an unknown apartment. He looked dazed but Mycroft was used to seeing that expression on the doctor's face, particularly when Sherlock was in rare form. What drew the elder Holmes' brows tightly inward was not the expression nor even the familiarity the woman appeared to have with him. No, it was the swirls of dark magic that trailed him. The burgundy wisps curled about him, bandying for prime real estate on his person. While his brother was not adverse to occasionally toying with that magical side of the fence, this was not Sherlock's spell work. Mycroft didn't immediately recognize it and that bothered him far worse than seeing one of Sherlock's ministrations gone wrong.

"Anthea... where was my brother last sighted?"

His beautiful assistant dropped her seeming obliviousness without preamble. "He left the abandoned factory ahead of John Watson earlier. Seemed rather out of sorts... even for him, sir."

"Last actual sighting, Anthea."

She let out a long sigh. "We lost visual near Vauxhall, sir."

"What time?"

"Three a.m., sir."

"And it took John Watson nearly three hours to emerge after?"

"The woman with him is a nurse, sir," Anthea supplied, handing him a file. "Mary Morstan. Hardly anything on her. She does not work with him at the clinic."

"Then where did she come from," Mycroft murmured to himself. He stared at the footage, now paused on the mysterious nurse. The fact that Sherlock disappeared near Vauxhall gave him considerable concern after hearing the intel Anthea just gave him. "Ready my car."

^~^~~~^^~~~^~^

"I am not above throwing you into the shower myself, brother."

Mycroft would have loved to have taken a seat as far from Sherlock as he could but he needed to project authority. That meant towering over his sibling now that they had him back at Baker Street, albeit with a handkerchief firmly pressed over his nose. While a good portion of the homeless in this area worshiped Sherlock, there were still enough that couldn't care less about the innately gifted mage other than to knock him unconscious and relieve him of his wallet. The fact that they could sneak up on him at all told Mycroft more than any file or camera feed ever would. Sherlock's swollen, vacant eyes filled in the rest. The eyes were currently closed, however, and the reeking detective was curled into the back of the couch. Sherlock was usually so fastidious with his appearance that Mycroft knew his brother had to be badly adrift to tolerate the hideous smell clinging to him from the blanket they'd found him wrapped in.

Of course the wallet had already been recovered. Mycroft's magic was nowhere near his brother's but he could at least manage that with ease. His true gift was sight. Not so much foresight but he was able to distinguish spells too subtle for even Sherlock to always catch. What he'd seen around John Watson had made his blood chill.

"Sherlock," he sighed when his younger sibling gave no reaction, "what did you do? The spell surrounding John was not of your making."

At that, Sherlock rotated on the couch and bolted upright. "You saw him," he croaked, his voice raw from exposure to the cold, damp fog shrouding the bridge. "How did he seem?"

"Confused, though I suppose that is not entirely rare for John when dealing with you. The nurse aiding him is not from his usual work circle. If I did not know that you had finally seduced John into your bed I would have thought her his new romantic interest."

Sherlock's lips curled into a scowl. "She's one of Moriarty's demons."

"Ah." Sherlock not rising to take his bait gave Mycroft another glimpse of his brother's fractured state of mind. "So again I ask, dear brother... What did you do?"

"Moriarty had him cornered. He had no clue of it but I did. I knew Moriarty was there so I struck a deal with him to save John."

Mycroft sighed and stared at the ceiling for a moment before asking his next question. "And what did the deal entail?"

"John's life for his memories of me. He no longer remembers anything that relates to me. Nothing." Suddenly Sherlock was up and pacing. It was slower than his usual rate, the cold still affecting his joints but his mind was no longer dulled. "I could kidnap him... Possibly reverse the spell... Where could I hide him until I figure out the spell he used...?"

"Sherlock..."

"It will need to be remote. John's resourceful and he'll try to escape me since he won't know my motives. I'll need to watch that right hook of his. So clever that he uses his right hand for combat in spite of his left being his dominant. Ambidextrous people are so delightfully unpredictable to go up against. You can't ever be sure-"

"It cannot be reversed, Sherlock."

"-which hand they'll use. Thankfully John tends to telegraph when he throws a punch at me. Sentiment. He can't-"

"Red, Sherlock."

"Of course it's red! Moriarty wouldn't use anything less," Sherlock barked at his brother, but it got him to pause his manic fluttering through the room. He drew his shoulders back as he straightened his posture and eyed Mycroft warily. "Which red?"

"Burgundy. You cannot reverse it, brother. All you can do now is destroy Moriarty." As much as Mycroft lived for taking Sherlock to task, he would never wish this upon his younger brother. John Watson's loyalty to and protectiveness of Sherlock was so precious and rare that no one could ever replace him in Sherlock's life and Mycroft feared the downward trajectory if this situation could not be made right. John was a calming, centering force for his brother to twitch and pace around, his gravity keeping Sherlock in a stable orbit.

"John will never regain what Moriarty took from him, but once the spell is lifted you could re-introduce yourself into his life. He is still the same man. Dazzle him again and then rebuild, Sherlock."

Sherlock deflated again, sinking back down to the couch. "I cannot openly go after Moriarty, only solve the cursed puzzles he throws at me. If I can take him out during one of them, then fair game. If not, hands off. That's the deal."

"John would never have wanted you to make this type of deal," Mycroft frowned and was about to continue when Sherlock's head snapped up with his eyes ablaze. 

"Don't you presume to tell me what John wanted," he growled. "You knew nothing of him beyond a dossier and a camera feed." He flung his body back into a fetal position facing the back of the sofa again. "Get out, Mycroft."

Again Mycroft eyed the marred surface of the ceiling and tapped his umbrella tip to the floor lightly. "Even you are not omnipotent, Sherlock. There are always ways to circumvent that which is inconvenient. When you are finished with feeling sorry for yourself, do contact me." He turned for the door and was nearly across the threshold when a thought occurred to him. "Your deal... I was in no way mentioned or intimated amid the terms?"

"No."

"Good," Mycroft murmured then continued down the stairs to his waiting car. Moriarty seemed to have no concept of the depths that Sherlock would now likely sink to. Mycroft would burn down half of London before he allowed his brother to fall back to being the lost soul he was before John Watson gave him a reason to be a better man. When he climbed back into the Jaguar, he only gave Anthea a cursory glance. "Activate Bravo Baker. I want real time recognizance of each of Moriarty's organization. It is time to tear the spider's web from the window. Feed bits of it to Sherlock until he re-engages."

"Yes, sir. Are we going back to the office now?" Anthea didn't bother to look up from her Blackberry as she questioned her boss.

"No. Mary Morstan's flat. I believe I suddenly require some medical advice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Mycroft's Bravo Baker team is a nod to this amazing fic by abundantlyqueer:  
> Two Two One Bravo Baker  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/180121/chapters/264839


	3. Rain

Mycroft rapped his knuckles against the nondescript door and waited patiently with his face hidden, as always, behind a mask of disinterest. Also as usual, Anthea remained in the car. Surprisingly, John answered the door, but then John always was good for the unexpected.

"Yes?"

"John Watson?"

John looked him up and down warily. "Who's asking?"

Mycroft wasn't sure how much John did remember but clearly the soldier's instincts hadn't left him. Knowing it would smooth the path a bit, he withdrew a fake identification wallet from his jacket. He noted the split second of tension from John when he reached into his pocket for the ID.

"Doctor John Watson, correct," Mycroft asked further as he flipped open the leather casing to reveal a position with army internal affairs. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"Formerly," John corrected him succinctly. "What does internal affairs need with me?"

"Might I come inside, Doctor?"

John stared hard at Mycroft for a moment before opening the door further. He felt John's eyes follow him as he walked past, not turning to re-establish eye contact. 

"An incident earlier this morning. Do I need to be specific, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft's eyes quickly flicked about the flat, taking in every detail. One small notation gave him quite a bit of inward amusement but he hoped he wouldn't have to call it to the table. Again, John surprised him and stayed behind him, staring a hole into his back.

"I think that would be best," John answered mildly and Mycroft turned slowly to face him. He had to hand it to John; while his emotions tended to be clearly visible in his eyes and facial expressions, the elder Holmes had yet to manage to make the ex-surgeon fidget or squirm. Today was no different as John steadily held his gaze. Mycroft caught only a slight shifting of his bad shoulder. He smiled benignly at John and put the ID wallet away.

"An anonymous bystander witnessed you in a situation that caused them a great deal of concern. There was some anxiety over your well-being," he explained, watching for the slightest hint of struggle behind John's eyes. 

Anything he could latch onto for his younger brother's sake.

"Who are you really," John asked, the suspicion thick in his voice. "Sorry but internal affairs usually have far bigger fish to fry to bother with random good samaritan calls."

"You were one of us," Mycroft answered simply. "You know we look after our own, Captain."

"I'm not a captain anymore," John reminded him, a sharp point to his words in spite of his voice remaining calm and softly spoken, "and I care for bullshit even less now than I did when I was one. How did IA get pulled in on a call that would normally go to NSY? An anonymous witness wouldn't know I was former military."

"At five forty-eight this morning you were observed being helped from an abandoned factory. Shall I give the address to refresh your memory?"

"It wouldn't matter if you did. I was in no shape to know or remember anything that happened there and you haven't answered my question." John tilted his head expectantly, not about to give any extra information before he got some in return.

"The property the factory is on is owned by entities important to our interests, Doctor. That is really all I am able to tell you. Of course we were alarmed by the state you appeared to be in when we pulled surveillance footage. The young woman you live here with... Ms. Morstan... She seemed to be tending to a head wound as she helped you to her car. Naturally an ex-Army captain wounded in one of our factories that has been abandoned for some time would come across my desk for an explanation as to why you were there in the first place."

John stared at Mycroft with outward calm but Mycroft had known John long enough to recognize his small ticks of agitation. "I don't remember," he finally said as he clenched his hand slowly. "You'll have to-"

"John? Who are you talking to-" Mary Morstan rounded the corner of the flat and stopped short when she saw Mycroft. 

Her face drained of all color and her eyes darted toward the small, hidden cubby he'd noted earlier. It was to the side of the television cabinet; not terribly creative as a hiding spot. He fixed the woman with a piercing stare.

_Either you do not truly know who I am or you do not fully comprehend what I am capable of, Ms. Morstan. In either scenario going for your handgun would not end well at all. Considering your part in this, I can assure you the end will be neither pleasant nor quick. Choose wisely._

Her hesitation made her decision for her as John turned slightly to speak to her. "Mycroft Holmes. He says he's Army Internal Affairs. Apparently the building we were called to was under their watch and someone reported seeing us leaving."

"You just stated you do not remember the incident," Mycroft questioned, feeling something was off. Perhaps it was Ms. Morstan throwing him. He did so despise demons but he made no attempt to block her communication to Moriarty.

"I don't," John answered. "Mary told me what happened on the way home. I got a call at the clinic asking for help; someone claiming they were badly wounded but wouldn't go to a proper hospital. Mary went with me to assist me and they knocked me in the head and took off. I'm not sure what they wanted. They didn't steal my wallet. Mary didn't take hers."

"And you remember nothing of it save what Ms. Morstan told you?" Mary shot him a look of pure hatred from beyond John's shoulder.

"No, nothing. I don't remember getting the call, only waking up laying on the floor."

"And nothing seems strange about that to you," Mycroft prodded, fixing his eyes upon Mary. John narrowed his deep blue eyes back at Mycroft.

"Only that I fell for it. I definitely shouldn't have taken Mary with me."

Well that was certainly an answer in line with the old John Watson. Mycroft tapped his damp umbrella lightly on the floor and John stared at it for a moment before Mycroft spoke again. "You suffered a head injury that rendered you unconscious for nearly three hours. Why did you not have yourself admitted to a hospital for observation?"

"Because I'm a doctor," John sighed with irritation. "I'm more than capable of knowing if my symptoms warrant a trip to A & E. I also have a nurse here who's capable of the same. Are you suspecting me of something, Agent Holmes? If so, I'd rather you just came out with it. I may be fine but I do have a splitting fucking headache that you are definitely not helping."

"I suppose it is true that doctors make the worst patients," Mycroft mocked, ignoring John's question. He grinned broadly as John's eyes darkened dramatically. "Very well then. If you are certain you will be making a full recovery, I will leave you to your day. Do be sure to call us the next time you have an anonymous request for help, Doctor. This is London, not Afghanistan. We do try to keep things as civilised as possible and prefer _civilians_ to remained unharmed." He pulled out a business card and held it out to John who declined to move one muscle to take it. Mycroft pointedly placed it upon the shelf nearest his reach then turned for the door.

"Oh one last question, Doctor Watson..." Mycroft turned back and stared hard at Mary before looking to John again. "Are you familiar with a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes?"

John blinked back at him and shrugged. "I'll hazard a guess by the last name that he's related to you somehow. Other than that, no. Should I?"

A bit of Mycroft inwardly sagged at his answer. There was no pulse elevation or pupil dilation. Not even a twitch or involuntary jerk. He couldn't shake the feeling something was off still but perhaps it was the whole notion of John and Sherlock no longer performing as one that felt so wrong.

"He was a bystander," Mycroft answered, sticking to the truth. "He inquired as to your well-being. As such I thought you two might possibly know one another," he added, again keeping as closely to the truth as he could. It was always the easiest way to keep a manipulation or smokey mirror believably in play. "I will pass along that you are relatively... unscathed."

"Is he the one that called you then?"

Mycroft studied John before responding. "He is responsible for my knowing of your predicament."

"Well that's a long-winded way of saying yes," John smiled tightly. "IA blokes don't usually speak the way you do. You sound more like a politician. Have you ever even fired a gun?"

Mycroft's smile became less-than-benign then. It would be a job well done on his part if John Watson never knew what Mycroft was physically capable of. "Take care, John," he advised. "Doctors of your caliber are so very difficult to replace."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Rain spattered against the windows of 221B with a vengeance as Sherlock dissolved the portal orb and collapsed against the cushions of the couch. He shouldn't have opened it but he had to see for himself. He knew Mycroft would go to John to gauge the effects of Moriarty's spell, but Sherlock knew John better than anyone. He'd hoped against hope for some sort of signal or indication that the spell wasn't airtight, that John could find his way back through some miniscule fissure or weak spot.

There had been nothing. When Mycroft mentioned his name to John, he may as well have mentioned it to someone living under a rock for the past three years. There'd been no reaction beyond John's obvious annoyance and tense suspicion of Mycroft. It would have excited him to see John in such prime, questioning form had the circumstances been different. Now it just felt like Sherlock had been stabbed in the gut and was quickly bleeding out. Even with a fire going, dampness seemed to creep into the flat and latch onto him. Cold permeated every cell in his body and his teeth began to chatter as he shivered uncontrollably. A broken sob escaped him and he buried his face into the back of the couch.

In the pocket of his dressing gown, Sherlock's phone pinged the arrival of a new message. He almost ignored it but a part of him still wanted to believe in John's unpredictability and resilience. He fumbled his hand into his pocket and withdrew the phone with trembling fingers.

 

**Now that you're free of your pet, we can begin again. In earnest this time. -JM**

 

Sherlock's phone shattered completely when it hit the unforgiving surface of the fireplace.


	4. Made of Echoes

The sound of the rain wouldn't stop. It echoed in his ears until he thought he might very well lose his mind. If John had been here, they would be curled on the couch listening to it with tea and Thai, reading or just watching the flames dance hypnotically in the fireplace. He wasn't here. He wouldn't be here. There was nothing soothing or comfortable about the rain now. It was a hateful, mocking nuisance and as much as he tried to block himself off, it seeped back in, bringing with it a swarm of memories that ripped him apart inside.

_"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Why didn't you take a cab?"_

_"I was thinking," he muttered. "I barely noticed it."_

_"You wouldn't notice the Queen Mother sitting on your shoulders while you're thinking."_

_"Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I would."_

_"No you wouldn't," John called over his shoulder as he disappeared only to reappear a moment later with several towels his arms. One he tossed onto Sherlock's dripping curls. The second was wrapped about Sherlock's neck once he'd pulled his scarf off._

_"Your lips are blue, you idiot," John grunted, making quick work of his coat and shirt. "It's winter, Sherlock. You don't stroll in the rain in bloody November!" He pulled another towel around the detective's torso and pushed the ends into Sherlock's numb fingers. "God, you are an idiot."_

_"Yes, you said that already, John."_

_"It's worth repeating right now," John snapped back, though his voice wasn't as harsh now. He got Sherlock to kick off his shoes then set about getting him out of his trousers and pants, replacing them with yet another towel. "Get over there by the fire. I'm going to run your pyjamas in the dryer for a few minutes to warm them up for you."_

_Sherlock's teeth started to chatter and John caught him by the arm. "Nevermind. Shower will be better. Bathroom. Now."_

_A ridiculous smile spread across Sherlock's features as he gazed down at his doctor. "Will you join me?"_

_"Not if you don't move your frozen arse right now," John countered, though Sherlock caught the quirk at the corner of his mouth as he tried to hide a smile. He began muttering to himself as he dug through the pile of clothing on their bed that Sherlock had yet to put away. "After everything we've survived, I swear if you die of hypothermia I'm going to resuscitate you just to kill you myself."_

_"Yes, John," he grinned, the J in John's name rolling from the shivering. He puttered into the bathroom, which by itself spoke volumes of how close to hypothermia he actually was. He felt a bit foggy; something akin to how he was on marijuana. He didn't care for pot once he experienced how it slowed him down without actually calming down his mind. He was hyperaware of his body being sluggish but found it didn't really bother him at the moment. Soon John would be in the shower with him and would slow his mind for him. John was better at that than any drug. He knew exactly how to coax Sherlock's entire being into a floating sensation of serene calm and, unlike the drugs, the feeling lasted for hours at a time. Even meditative spells had nothing on John Watson._

_"What are you doing? Why aren't you in the shower?"_

_Sherlock just grinned down at him and shrugged. John quickly angled Sherlock's face so he could see his eyes in the light of the mirror bulbs. "Right, you're a mess," he whispered worriedly and reached over to turn the taps. He felt the temperature of the water then started removing Sherlock's towels. "C'mon, love. In ya go." Sherlock winced slightly as the water hit his skin and disrupted his blooming euphoria. "I know," John soothed as he stepped in with with the trembling detective without bothering to shed his own clothing. "It's going to be a bit uncomfortable but I'll bring the temp up gradually." He began rubbing Sherlock's arms gently under the stream and the detective frowned at the sharp stabs of pain it set off under his skin._

_"Ow," he mumbled against John's temple._

_"Yeah, I'll bet," John nodded. "Don't you ever do this again, Sherlock. I mean it. Get a fucking cab when you're alone and it's this cold."_

_"Thinking John."_

_"Don't care, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock watched him silently before the heart of the matter finally escaped his lips. "John...? Please don't leave."_

_John paused his careful massage to look up at Sherlock. "Is that what you thought? You thought I'd leave just because we had a row?" He chuckled with a shake of his head as he reached up and cupped Sherlock's confused face. "Just because you pissed me off doesn't mean I'm going to leave. I can be angry with you and still love you. Couples argue... us maybe more than others but this was a tiff, Sherlock. It's not the first we've had. It likely won't be the last. I'm not going anywhere."_

_"You were furious though."_

_"Well yeah, you're an infuriating bastard," John shrugged as he went back to getting Sherlock's blood warming and circulating fully. "I have no illusions about that changing anytime soon. You're going to be a twat and I'm going to yell about it. It's twisted as fuck, but I can't really picture myself anywhere but here with you."_

_"Thank you, John," Sherlock offered sincerely. John glanced up at him, the shortness of it not preventing his eyes from broadcasting what was in his heart._

_"Tell me that when you can manage multi-syllabic words again," he whispered, rubbing his hands rhythmically over Sherlock's torso. "I'll appreciate it even more then."_

_"I wouldn't do well on my own now. I don't want to lose you," Sherlock breathed. "I don't want to imagine life without you now that you're here."_

_"Not something you need to think about," John spared a smile for him as he remained in physician mode. "Ever." A healthy tone was coming back to Sherlock's skin and John kept increasing the warmth of the spray. The enclosed space was beginning to fog up now and John's face was now flushing from pink to a bit red._

_"John...?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Isn't body heat ideal for such a situation as this?"_

_John did a double take then shook his head firmly. "Don't, Sherlock. I'm trying to take care of you here."_

_"I think body heat is definitely the best option for me now, John. I am positive I will feel much better when you're wearing far less clothing... as in none."_

_"God, you are insufferable sometimes."_

_"So you're perfectly comfortable in waterlogged wool and denim?"_

_"Fucker," John growled as he started to rid himself of his jumper and undershirt, then his trousers and pants._

_"Not yet... but only because I don't want to try to swallow you while my teeth are chattering."_

_"Shut up," John ordered through clenched teeth, pulling him close and briskly rubbing his back._

_"Aye, Captain," Sherlock rumbled in a perfect brogue and he nuzzled his face into John's neck, "shutting up."_

 

A deep growl began in Sherlock's chest as he shifted on the couch. It steadily grew until he was screaming at the walls at full volume. He began to systematically tear 221B apart, unable to deal with the vivid, searing pain that each object unleashed upon him. Glasses and dishes shattered against the kitchen floor. Books tore themselves from the shelves and practically disintegrated. John's laptop joined Sherlock's phone in pieces against the hearth. The cherished RMAC mug joined them in the contained hurricane but then something caught Sherlock's eye. A flash of something silver. Recognizing what it was, he jerked his wrist and John's dog tags sailed to him. He clutched them to his chest and curled in on himself as he suddenly ran out of steam. The damage was done though. The contents of 221B lay in ruin around him and he just couldn't summon the strength within himself to care.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"John, are you okay?"

Mary entered the kitchen to find John hunched over the back of one of the chairs in pain. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as he nodded to her. "Migraine," he gasped. "I just need to lay down. Probably overdid it. Kill that light, will you?"

"Sure," she frowned, watching him carefully. She flipped the switch and John rubbed gingerly at the bridge of his nose. "Are you sure you don't want to get checked out?"

"I'm fine," he snapped. "I just need to rest," he added, gentling his tone.

She drew close to him and slid her palms over the skin where neck joined to shoulder. "I could give you a massage. Might help."

"No," he winced, shrugging her off. "Everything's hypersensitive right now. I'm going to try to sleep. Should be gone in the morning." 

"And if it's not?"

"Then I'll fucking take something else for it," he barked and swayed slightly as the action caused the roaring in his head to increase. He staggered into the spare room and curled up on the floor, only bothering to pull a pillow down with him for his head.

Mary stared at him for a moment before shutting the door. She sat down on the couch and breathed slowly while she focused.

_He's having a migraine. A really bad one. Is that normal?_

**Of course it is. He's a weakling. Weaklings don't respond well to magic this strong. It'll pass.**

_What should I do if it doesn't?_

**Relish the fact that you did half a job for twice the pay and didn't even have to fuck him. John Watson's comfort is not important. Do not bother me again unless it's important.**

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mycroft surveyed the disaster that was his brother's flat. He wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him but he couldn't bring himself to actually yell at his fragile sibling. He needed to be the calm in contrast to the storm that was his younger brother. Whispering under his breath, the objects scattered about the flat began to piece back together in rapid succession. Mycroft quietly watched until Sherlock came at him in a swirl of unbridled fury.

"Don't you touch it! Don't you fucking touch one thing!"

Mycroft blinked at the rage emanating from his brother. Sherlock rarely swore and when he did, he definitely did not drop the F bomb. He also hadn't screamed at Mycroft in such a way since being thrown into rehab against his will. "Sherlock," he sighed, "you cannot destroy the hurt you feel by destroying material objects." He noted the ball chain dangling from Sherlock's clenched fingers and met his brother's rage with quiet sympathy. "John would not want this."

"John is gone to me! Don't you presume to tell me what I can or cannot do!" His eyes darted about the room and fragile items still knitting their molecules back together began to explode again.

Mycroft held his palm out and John's mug landed gently upon it in one piece. "You would really see this perish in an irrational outburst?"

Sherlock's eyes flared then flicked sideways. The mug screamed through the air and crashed against the wall. Mycroft sighed again and brought it back intact, only to have Sherlock petulantly smash it again. 

"Sherlock, enough," Mycroft snapped harshly. "You are better than this!"

"No, I was better," Sherlock corrected him darkly. "Now I'm just me again. No John to soften the sharp edges for everyone. No John to be my moral compass. No John to keep my brain from poisoning itself..."

"You are grieving but you will find your footing again in time," the elder Holmes insisted. "You did it before. You will do it again."

"Get out! Get out now!"

"I will not," Mycroft refused calmly. He drew in a deeper breath then snapped his fingers resolutely. The objects sailing around them halted abruptly then snapped back to their rightful places, quickly fusing back together. Sweat broke out on Sherlock's brow as he tried to reverse Mycroft's magic. "You are a great deal stronger than me under normal circumstances, Sherlock, but right now you are too compromised to fight me. This is exactly what Moriarty wants. He wants you weakened so that you are no threat to him beyond being his dancing jester solving riddles at his pleasure. You must find a way to pull yourself together or opportunities to strike will pass right by you unused."

"I. Don't. Care." Sherlock barely spit the words out past the violent shaking of his body. "Jim Moriarty can go fuck himself. I am done with it all."

"Eloquent, certainly," Mycroft sniffed, "however if you really believe James Moriarty will not change the terms of your agreement to further corner you, you are deluding yourself. John is only safe so long as you engage Moriarty. You must do more than that though, Sherlock. You must finally use your full potential against him."

"Moriarty wanted John gone. He's gone. Now he gets to see what the world around me looks like without John." Sherlock spun Mycroft toward the door and physically pushed him beyond it. "Let him lay in the bed he so carefully made for us," he snarled then slammed the door in Mycroft's face and sealed it with a few whispered words.


	5. I'll Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read this again after posting and decided I wanted/needed to add to it a bit. :)

Shards of debris rotated slowly around Sherlock as he waited patiently for the clock to reach its desired time. John would be at the surgery in two hours sharp. He had to be sure. Mycroft said John remembered nothing of him but Mycroft didn't know the subtleties of John Watson as he did. He had to see for himself. Maybe there was something left that he could trigger. There was one way to find out. Drastic, but if this didn't trigger something inside John, likely nothing would. The thought of it all made Sherlock sick but he couldn't sit in the flat and wonder. His heart was aching for John in a way he never realized possible and he had to see him.

The swirling debris collectively crashed to the floor as Sherlock stood from the couch. He went to the fireplace and worked loose the piece of paneling to the right side. Behind it, he pulled free the ornate teak box and sat down again as he slid the lid open. His hands trembled as he picked up a glass vial and a syringe. His eyes traveled toward a sharp piece of ceramic on the floor. That'd do nicely for the other portion of his plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dr. Watson, someone to see you."

"There usually is, isn't there?"

Sherlock stepped past the nurse and into John's office, ignoring her huff of indignation. John was in the middle of writing down his notes from his last patient and didn't immediately look up, surprising Sherlock with his gruff tone. Not like John to be condescending toward his co-workers. Lack of sleep? No, John tended to hold his tongue even when exhausted, at least with fellow staff. With Sherlock, not so much.

"We advised him to go to A&E instead but-"

"John...?"

John's hand stilled and his eyes flicked upward. The murky blue traveled down to Sherlock's arm where he held a bloody towel in place and then his eyes narrowed sharply. John quickly cleared his notes into his desk and locked it then stood up to approach Sherlock. He frowned at the detective as he pulled nitrile gloves from his pocket and snapped them on before gently peeling the towel away.

"Well that looks painful," John deadpanned. "Want to tell me how this happened?"

"John, I-"

John's eyes narrowed again as he looked Sherlock in the eye. "Dr. Watson," he stated calmly, correcting the impropriety. "I don't believe we've met."

The frosty, almost snobby tone caught Sherlock off guard. He blinked at John, his eyes quickly traveling over him. "Actually we... I do know who you are... in a sense."

John gestured toward the door. "Open that. I'm not stitching you in my office."

"I'd really rather you did," Sherlock spoke quickly and blocked John's path. "I... I have a bit of a phobia about... people. If you could please do it here I'd be grateful."

The corner of John's mouth twitched upward into a smile that was anything but jovial. 

"You say you know me-"

"Yes."

"That's funny because I don't know you. Who are you? Why did you refuse to go to A&E where they could treat this far better?"

It was then that Sherlock noticed it. When he first met John, the ex-soldier always held eye contact. John seemed to believe that people's eyes held the answers when he had questions. Even under duress John Watson could hold a stare squarely. The more John thought you were full of shit, the firmer his stare would be upon you. Now Sherlock saw John's eyes wandering, though not about his office or to avoid Sherlock's gaze. An amazing sense of delight filled Sherlock as he realized John was cataloguing him. His glorious, fantastic doctor had picked up quite a few tricks from Sherlock in their time together and once you taught John something, he never forgot it. Sherlock realized he never gave John enough credit before and that was saying something because Sherlock gave him more credit than anyone else he knew. 

"Nonsense. You're an ex-Army doctor. You can stitch this with your eyes closed and still do a better job than the imbeciles at my local," Sherlock scoffed. "I came here because you're highly recommended and I don't have to suffer the morons overflowing the waiting room."

"You didn't exactly have a short wait here either," John smirked. "Stop lying. You're not very good at it."

Oh this man. His beautiful, brilliant man. It was all still in there somewhere. It had to be. "I apologize, John-"

"Doctor Watson."

"Yes... sorry. I... I saw you yesterday. I was quite concerned about you as you seemed ill. Your friend was helping you to her car."

"My car."

Sherlock's eyes glinted as he smiled as John testing him. "Her car."

John's chin lifted defiantly at that, causing Sherlock's body to thrum. Of John's quirks, it was one of his favorites, that silent 'fuck you, I'm not impressed yet' twitch.

"So you're Mycroft Holmes' relative then... Sh..."

"Sherlock."

"Hmm. And you just happen to get a nasty cut and a phobia of people that wouldn't allow you to tolerate the A&E."

Oh very good, John. "I'm not so brilliant in the kitchen."

Another smirk as John's eyes studied the self-inflicted wound again. "Sit down. I'll go get what I need."

"Thank you, Joh- Dr. Watson."

A sharp nod and John left the room with the door conspicuously open. Sherlock longed to nose about the office, but he doubted anything had changed since the last time he did so. It was very possible John was testing him again as well so he forced himself to stay still in his chair. John returned with a suture kit, antiseptic and Lidocaine. He’d pulled off the previous pair of gloves, obviously from having to touch non-sterile objects, but had a fresh pair in hand. Sherlock thought it was silly but remained silent.

“Lose the coat and roll up your sleeve a little more so it’s out of the way,” he instructed as he pulled on the fresh gloves and broke the reservoir on the antiseptic swab. Moment of truth. Sherlock shrugged his Belstaff from his shoulder and pulled his good arm free. He carefully rolled up his sleeve and watched John’s expression closely. The good doctor turned back toward him to clean out the wound and paused, his eyes resting upon the swelled puncture wound at Sherlock’s elbow. John’s lips pursed lightly and he started in on the cut with a bit less gentleness than Sherlock was used to from him. 

“How did you say this happened again?”

Sherlock bit back a smile even as his stomach recoiled a bit from John’s disapproval. It was subtle enough to stay within the veil of professionalism to an unwitting patient but to Sherlock, John may as well have been screaming that he was an idiot. It felt good even as it felt awful. 

“As I said, I don’t always get along with instruments of domesticity.”

“But you have no problem with other sharp objects.” John gave a wry smile as he shot Sherlock a cool look that chilled his blood. Again, outwardly professional but Sherlock knew him too well not to take it to heart. He looked down to where John had now binned the swab and pulled out a cleansing pad to disinfect his hands. He looked up expectantly at Sherlock as he shook his hands dry.

“My mind needs some… help… at times.”

“There are better ways to do that, you know, or do you just refuse to be at the mercy of an actual professional’s discretion?”

Sherlock looked up and found John’s eyes boring into him as he pulled on fresh gloves from the sterile pack. “I wouldn’t refuse you… Your expertise, that is…”

John’s mouth twitched again, his eyes remaining locked with Sherlock’s. He snorted slightly before picking up the pre-threaded needle and focusing upon Sherlock’s arm. “I highly doubt that. Nice try though. Good form to flatter the man about to sew your flesh back together.”

A small smile hitched up the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “It’s the truth, but take it any way you wish.”

“Hmpf,” John grunted noncommittally. Sherlock noticed he hadn’t used the numbing agent and was about to puncture his skin with the needle.

“No Lidocaine then,” Sherlock asked coyly. John huffed again but didn’t bother to glance up.

“Do you really need it at this point?”

“No.”

“No offense but your pupils alone told me that,” John smirked as he made the first stitch. “As you so generously stated… I am a good doctor.”

“Very good,” Sherlock smiled, his voice low and husky as he recalled the first day John set foot in 221B.

“So why didn’t you approach us outside the building yesterday,” John asked quietly. “I was out of it. Mary could have used the help.”

“Better that I stayed clear. I likely would have brought unwanted attention to you,” Sherlock explained.

“Worse than Mycroft,” John laughed under his breath, not impressed.

“Very possibly, yes,” Sherlock answered. “You needn’t worry now though. Mycroft’s people will always have an eye out for you now that you’re on his radar. You’ll be safe.”

“Well that sounds vaguely creepy,” John muttered, clearly annoyed. “I don’t need watching. Please relay the message.”

“It won’t make any difference if I tell him,” Sherlock chuckled. “Better that I keep my mouth shut actually. We’re quite contrary with one another. Family rivalry and all.”

“That’s terribly fucked up,” John grunted as he continued to stitch the cut. He realized his slip and glanced up guiltily. “Pardon the language. Not exactly professional, that.”

“Not to worry,” Sherlock assured him and meant it. “I didn’t come to you for perfect table manners, John.”

John looked up but this time his eyes weren’t dark with annoyance. “Doctor,” he reminded Sherlock quietly. Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore. He impulsively leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s. John’s eyes closed for a fraction of a second before he released the needle and pushed Sherlock away.

“What in the _hell_ are you doing,” he gasped, pressing the back of his gloved hand to his mouth.

Sherlock desperately searched John's face for any sliver, anything at all that he could grab onto to poke and prod into something familiar and safe. Something to nudge John back to him then they could secretly work against Moriarty again. "Nothing? You don't know me at all?"

"What? No! What are you on about?" John stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head.

"We knew one another! How can you have so completely forgotten! Something has to be there! Moriarty isn't that powerful!"

John raised his hands as Sherlock began to pace and tug at his hair, the suture needle dangling forgotten from his half-stitched skin. He was about to speak when the nurse burst into the room.

"Doctor...? Do you need help...?"

"Nope," John shook his head and spoke quietly, clearly eager to get her out of the line of possible fire. Mary poked her head into the room and paled at seeing Sherlock in John's office. Sherlock spun on her and growled his hatred.

"You! What are _you_ doing here? You don't work here!"

"I do work here," she stated evenly, glaring at him. "I always have."

John circled around Sherlock to put himself between them. "Mary... Irma... Go back to your duties. I'll handle this."

"John, I don't think that's wise," Mary frowned, putting her hand to his arm. He shrugged it off with a sharp jerk of his shoulder.

"Go. I said I've got this," he commanded firmly, acute annoyance seeping into his voice.

"But Doctor Watson-"

"Goddammit, I was in the Army! I know how to bloody handle myself, now get out," John barked over his shoulder while not taking his eyes off Sherlock who was still scowling dangerously at Mary. 

"Should I call the police," Irma asked timidly.

"No!" John finally turned and glared at her and Mary. "I've got this!"

Mary gave Sherlock a warning look then pulled Irma from the office. Sherlock had no doubt she was already contacting Moriarty but Sherlock wasn't bothered. Moriarty would be a fool not to expect him to try. He was also too arrogant to worry whether his spell was foolproof. He was probably eating this up. 

His thought process was interrupted by John's now gentled voice. "Okay... just... calm down. Tell me what you took and I'll try to help you... I will help you."

"It's just seven percent. It's nothing worth worrying yourself over."

"Clearly you're worked up. Just... calm down, okay?"

"I'm calm, I just don't understand how you could so completely forget us... I'm not blaming you of course... I'm not understanding how Moriarty could pull this off alone. He's just not that strong... His divination is always so scattered. Somehow he's-"

John grabbed his upper arm and turned him around roughly. "I don't understand what the hell you are talking about. I don't know who Moriarty is or what you think he's done. Explain yourself or I'm going to call Mycroft to come get you. He gave me his card and I will use it if I have to."

"Gah... don't call that annoying ponce." Sherlock scoffed and looked away. He tried to reign himself in as he realized his manic outburst wasn't helping anything. He sucked air into his lungs and scrubbed his hand across his eyes to calm himself. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock blinked, also pressing his hand to his lips. “I’m… I’m terribly rough on social graces-”

“Yeah, clearly… Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Doctor.” John stepped back and twitched uncomfortably in front of Sherlock. “Do you have even the slightest idea of how inappropriate that was?”

“Yes… I… I didn’t misread though, did I?” Sherlock stood, holding the dangling needle still against his arm. “You do like me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know you and I certainly don't want your tongue down my throat," John bit out helplessly with his hands thrown upward. "I don’t know anything about you! We don’t know anything about one another! It was so completely out of line, Shhh-”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, sorry,” John soothed, wary of setting Sherlock off again. “Just… sit down. I’m going to finish those stitches, you’re going to keep your hands to yourself and then you’re going to need to tolerate your local from now on.”

Sherlock slowly sat down and hesitantly eased his arm out on the desk. “Could I… Might I see you again…?”

“I don’t think so,” John frowned, taking up the needle with a sigh. “I just don’t-”

“If I’m not your patient it wouldn’t be inappropriate any longer,” Sherlock hedged hopefully. “Just… tell me what I can do; how I can make up for my impulsiveness.”

“You… can’t. It’s still…” He shook his head and blinked rapidly. “I have a girlfriend. I’m…”

“Not gay,” Sherlock muttered, feeling like that phrase would forever haunt him now, eat away at his soul.

“I’m already attached,” John muttered softly. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Please… just tell me what I can do. I can wait if you’d rather.”

John stared at him for a long moment before pointedly sliding his gaze down to the injection site on his arm and cleared his throat. “I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes.”

“Oh.” Sherlock felt like he’d been stabbed. Despite knowing how John felt about drugs, this felt particularly cold and horrifically final. He remained silent while John finished the last two stitches then covered the sutures. He stood up and ripped the gloves off to bin them. Sherlock stood with him and couldn’t help but step forward. “Thank you… Dr. Watson.”

John took a slow, deliberate step backward.

Then lifted his chin.

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he took a deep breath. “Alright then… Good day to you…” He turned and left John’s office, his injured arm tugging painfully as he held his fingers to his lips. The skin still tingled as he slumped into the back of a black taxi and watched the building fade into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Painful. I do know. Just stick with me and trust me. It's going to pay off big time, I promise. :)


	6. Show Me The Way

Lestrade climbed the steps of 221 Baker Street and pushed the door open to flat B. He winced at the mess and stepped over a pile of shattered… something. It was difficult to tell what it used to be before the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes got hold of it. The detective was nowhere to be seen but Lestrade knew he was here. Mycroft had told him as much when he asked Greg to check up on his younger brother. He’d hoped the DI could talk some sense into Sherlock as his track record was far better than Mycroft’s.

Greg opened the door to Sherlock’s room and found a distinct lack of chaos as the detective lay staring at the ceiling. The bandage on his arm wasn’t much of a contrast against his pale skin but Greg did feel his temper start to churn as he saw the telltale sign of something he’d thought Sherlock had finally left behind.

“Go away, Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m not interested in cases right now.”

“Sherlock… I know you miss him but you’ve got to pull it together. What you pulled yesterday going to his-”

“You remember him?” Sherlock sat upright and stared hard at Greg. “How do you remember when no one else does?”

“Ehm… Mycroft?” Greg looked at him as thought that should be obvious. “I’m protected by Mycroft’s magic, Sherlock. That shouldn’t surprise you. You know how thorough he is.”

Sherlock was off the bed and pacing frantically. “Then why didn’t mine protect John?! What did I miss? Moriarty shouldn’t have been able to pull this off, Lestrade! It’s got to be something I’m missing!”

“Well shooting up isn’t going to help anything,” Greg frowned darkly. “C’mon, gimme your stash, Sherlock. All you did was put John off with that stunt. You should be trying to win him over while we put Moriarty in the ground finally, not make yourself persona non grata with him.”

“I wanted to see if I could trigger his memory somehow, or something more base inside him. At least an instinct to protect me… There’s nothing though! I don’t understand it!”

Greg cracked his neck and then rubbed at tired muscles in his shoulders. “You need to keep it under your hat that I remember okay? It’s a small advantage but let’s use it to the fullest,” he explained, knowing that Sherlock’s room couldn’t be monitored even by Mycroft. Mages and witches always had safe ground where the magic of others could not affect them or those they protected. Sherlock’s room was that spot. Anyone with him here was impervious to spells that were not of his own making.

“You’re right,” Sherlock nodded emphatically.

“I am?” Greg blinked at Sherlock actually agreeing with him.

“Yes… I need to gain John’s trust. It’s the only way I can get him back here. I need to bind him to this room until I figure this all out.”

“How about you just try to be nice to him and… uh… try to be charming… or at least fake it. Like the day he first came here.” Greg bit back a laugh in light of Sherlock’s desperation. John had described Sherlock as ‘oddly charming in a mad sort of way’. He couldn’t picture it himself but whatever Sherlock did that day, it had changed both his and John’s life for the better. “Woo him. Seduce him without assaulting him… although I can’t recommend you lock him in here, Sherlock. The John I know will never forgive you for that and you’ll lose him.”

“He’s not the same John Watson though,” Sherlock frowned. “He’s harsh and blunt where he used to be gentle and understanding. John never yelled at his colleagues before, certainly not women. He’s the same but… he’s not. I’m not sure how to navigate his personality now.”

“You didn’t know back then either. Hell, Sherlock, you still don’t always know. Just keep the impulsiveness in check and stay calm. Think about what you say to him before you go off with your verbal diarrhea.”

“Is that what you think of when I speak, Lestrade?” Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes now hard and guarded. Hurt feelings wasn’t something he was used to seeing in Sherlock but clearly the younger man was incredibly vulnerable again without John by his side. Greg instantly regretted his words.

“It’s just an expression for someone who says a lot more than they sometimes need to, Sherlock,” Greg offered apologetically. “You’re brilliant but sometimes the simplest approach is best, yeah?”

Sherlock looked at him dubiously but slowly nodded. “What do you suggest?”

“A simple, non-threatening apology would be a good start. Be calm. Be respectful. Don’t be shot up with that shite you’ve got hidden. Explain you’ve been clean for some time and you received a blow that caused you to slip up but that you’re still committed to your sobriety. Ask for his pardon and leave it at that for the moment. Give him some time then try to see him again. Slow and easy, Sherlock. Don’t be overwhelming.”

Sherlock took in Greg’s advice then stared at the floor silently. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with fear that Greg had never heard from him before. “Do you really think that will work?”

“If you sincerely try, yes,” Greg answered honestly. “Maybe not at first, but if you’ll give him time and space, I think you can manage it.”

“Okay,” Sherlock muttered.

“Good man,” Greg murmured his approval with a gentle clap to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll keep you updated on anything Mycroft and I come up with about Moriarty’s network.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock saw him and approached slowly. “Dr. Watson?”

John’s steps halted and he slowly turned to face Sherlock. “You…? Really? I thought I made myself clear yesterday.”

“You did,” Sherlock nodded, holding up his hands as he tried to take Greg’s advise. “I sincerely wanted to apologize to you about yesterday. If you could just give me a few moments, I’d like to explain myself.”

John eyed him suspiciously, his fingers tapping against his briefcase. “I’m not sure about…”

“Please, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock pleaded earnestly. “It would mean a lot to me to explain myself and to properly apologize for causing you any distress.”

John’s tongue licked hesitantly at his bottom lip then he pursed his lips together. “Yeah… okay. C’mon. A cuppa sounds brilliant right now. I’ll give you as long as it takes me to finish one.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock answered with clear relief written across his features. He followed John to a nearby cafe and took a seat across from him. John ordered a tea from the waitress and when she looked to Sherlock, John quickly answered for him.

“He’ll have tea as well, thanks.”

Sherlock’s smile was thin but he didn’t argue. “Yesterday-”

“Yesterday,” John nodded and folded his arms over his chest.

“I have been clean for five years,” Sherlock began. “I was never interested in the drugs themselves, not the high… only how they could enhance the working of my mind.”

“You do realize that’s what many addicts say,” John pointed out, though he was no longer being judgmental of Sherlock. He now seemed to want to honestly help him. “I hear it often.”

“I’m certain you do,” Sherlock allowed, “however in my case it actually is true. I think differently. I’ve honed my mind over the years to weed out all the detrius, all the unnecessary clutter so that I can see the base logic and connections of facts that others miss. I actually work with New Scotland Yard as a consulting detective.”

“The police don’t consult with amateurs though,” John frowned. “They have a slew of professionals at their disposal. Experts…”

“Experts that often miss what’s right in front of them because they don’t know how to look beyond the obvious red herrings.”

“Oh of course,” John smirked. “Are you working with Mycroft as well then?”

“God no,” Sherlock grimaced, “although I have solved some problems for him on occasion. Usually there’s bribery or traded favours there though. He’s far too full of himself for me not to demand that.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything at all about egotistical tendencies at all.”

Sherlock looked up at John, catching the knowing, piercing stare the doctor was giving him. “It’s not ego if I can back it up with track record, J… Dr. Watson. You are welcome to contact DI Lestrade to verify my work and performance for his department.”

“Which is…?”

“Homicide.” Sherlock met John’s level gaze head on. “They occasionally take on other high profile cases but mainly homicide.”

John just blinked at him before a cup of steaming tea was put down in front of him. He attended to his as Sherlock poured sugar and a splash of milk into his own. He took a slow sip and inhaled even more slowly.

“So you’ve been clean for five years… What caused the lapse?”

“Traumatic event,” Sherlock gritted. “I underestimated a man… a mage. I allowed myself and a… someone… very important to me… to walk into a trap. My options were limited as to how I could get the other person out alive. It ended… badly. I’m… not handling it well and I blame myself for allowing it to happen.”

“You can’t anticipate everything and you can’t control everything. If I learned anything overseas, that was it,” John consoled quietly. “No matter how well you plan, something can always go wrong. It’s all fubar but we’re not omnipotent… no matter how smart you are.”

“No… Moriarty… I know him. There’s something important that I missed, something I’m still not seeing and it’s cost me… everything,” Sherlock muttered through clenched teeth as he stared into his cup.

“I’m sure you did your best and I’m sure your… friend would understand… if they’re still around?”

“They’re still alive, yes,” Sherlock answered softly. “But it may never be the same between us. That… My lapse is tied to that. I take responsibility for what happened as well as my weakness… but I am committed to remaining clean. It was important to them… if nothing else, I’m compelled to honor that.”

John stared at him then swallowed and looked away for a moment as he composed his thoughts. “That… That’s a good frame of mind, Sherlock. I know I judged you harshly yesterday. You’ve apologized for your behavior and I’ll do the same. In my defense I see to many that never get clean and they throw away talents and opportunities that others would give a lot for in the name of their next fix. It’s very disheartening.”

“I understand that,” Sherlock stated somberly. “I do. I don’t want to go back to that time in my life. My partner changed everything for me. I just want that back and I’m doing everything I can to figure out how to do that.”

“Maybe you just need to be patient. Sometimes problems work themselves out if you just give it some breathing room,” John suggested gently. “No offense but you don’t seem like a very patient person.”

“I can be,” Sherlock replied frankly. “Patience is often required with what I do.”

“Then apply it here,” John smiled. “It sounds to me like patience will pay off handsomely here. You’re grieving in a sense, and you’re bound to miss something vital. Sit back and take everything in with a clear head and a calm heart, Sherlock. I believe you’ll see it. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Sherlock looked up at John and commanded his body to remain absolutely still against every instinct he had. “Please forgive my outburst yesterday, Dr. Watson.”

“John,” the doctor smiled back at him. “It’s all fine, Sherlock… but you still need to stick with your local.”

“Unless it’s an emergency,” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“You’d better be in danger of losing a small limb,” John scoffed and stood. He began to take out his wallet but Sherlock held up a hand.

“No please,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “It’s on me. The least I can do.”

“Okay,” John nodded. “Stick with it, yeah?”

“I will.”

John gave another nod and smiled before leaving the cafe. Sherlock’s heart was firmly lodged in his throat and he gripped his chair to keep from going after John and dragging him into the nearest cab. As much as he was relieved to clear the air, he also felt more empty than ever. It wasn’t right but he would figure out how to fix that… somehow.


	7. Silence Surrounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank the heartache that is all over Sherlock in this new season for striking my need to write more for this story. I've been itching to get back to it anyway but I have an overflow of angst over Sherlock, especially after HLV and I needed a way to vent it so the positive of this is it's got me back to writing after a severe bout of writer's block. Now it's like a crack in the dam and lots of stuff is wanting to burst out. Oh my poor, tender, Johnlock heart...

Molly glanced over as Sherlock entered the morgue. Her heart clenched a little as she took in his appearance. Whatever happened two weeks ago had changed him dramatically. He now walked with his head down, lost in his thoughts. Not that it was unusual for him to be lost in that mind palace of his, but he always walked with poise and his head held high. Now his shoulders slumped as if under a great weight, far more than the burden of that Belstaff that he wore like armor. Now even it didn’t seem to protect him. Now it appeared more a blanket about his shrinking form than a swirling extension of his personality.

“Sherlock,” she called brightly, “what can I help you with?”

He raised his eyes and stopped short as he saw her. No. Not her. The thudding of her heart slowed itself as she realized he was looking at the man next to her.

“John.”

Molly blinked in confusion as he almost stuttered the name. Now that was new. Sherlock didn’t stutter. He spoke so fast usually that it made mere mortals’ heads spin.

“Oh… do you know Dr. Watson?”

“We’ve met, yes,” the doctor replied. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“What are you doing here,” Sherlock asked, his eyes almost hopeful. Molly found herself staring at the doctor as she tried to figure out what about him could so completely fascinate someone like Sherlock Holmes.

“I lost a patient,” John replied tightly, his brows knitted. “I’m checking in with Ms. Hooper to confirm that it was anaphylactic shock.”

“Oh… my uhm… My apologies, John,” Sherlock offered sincerely.

“Thanks.”

Molly gaped as the two stared tensely at one another, but then piped up as she gestured back toward the wall of stored body lockers. “Dr. Watson’s patient hadn’t ever exhibited signs of it before so we’re questioning the use of magic. Possibly a hex.”

“I would be happy to examine the body to see if I detect anything,” Sherlock offered but John held up his hand quickly.

“No, that’s alright. I just came to confirm the results for when the family calls.”

“It’s no trouble, John-”

“Sherlock-” John held up a finger and turned slightly to Molly. “I’m sorry… would you excuse us a moment? I need a word with Sherlock in private.”

“Not at all,” Molly frowned with confusion. “I’ll get the official report copy for you.”

“Thanks.” John gestured toward the hall and Molly was taken aback by how much Sherlock looked like he’d been kicked over John’s firm declination. Who was this doctor fellow anyway?

___________________________________

“Sherlock… I… You know what, this needs to stop.”

“John?”

John held his hands up and shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. I can’t pretend I don’t know.”

Sherlock’s skin grew clammy beneath his coat. “Know what?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John shook his head. “I know I’m the partner you lost, okay? I knew it was me and I thought if I allowed you to come around me here or there you could work through your grief on your own time.” He rested his hands to his hips and sighed. “This is wrong though. When you see me, I see hope in your eyes and it feels cruel, Sherlock, because I don’t remember you. I’m sorry for what happened and while it makes a part of me incredibly angry to know my life was altered, this…? This is my reality. I don’t remember anything else and it makes me feel like utter shit when you look at me the way you do. I feel pressured to be something I can’t be for you… and that’s just not fair to either of us.”

“I’m okay, John. You don’t have to pretend or feel pressured. Just please don’t close me off out of concern.”

“It’s not just concern,” John sighing at the desperation in Sherlock’s tone. “It’s wrong… and it’s just cruel. You need to let go and move on as best you can, Sherlock, and you’ll never do that with me in your orbit. If this is somewhere you often find yourself, I’m going to steer clear and ask that you do the same of my clinic.”

“John, no. Please just-”

“No. I can’t. You can’t either.” John looked as though he might actually offer to shake Sherlock’s hand but then thought better of it. “I truly am sorry. I really do wish you the best, Sherlock. I hope you get the bastard that did this to you.”

“Us,” Sherlock corrected through gritted teeth. “He did this to US.”

“You,” John whispered. “There is no us. Not for me. I’m sorry.”

_________________________________

Molly peeked out into the hall and was alarmed to see the air around Sherlock swirling in an ugly, putrid greenish color. She stepped into the hallway but was quickly warned off by Sherlock’s dejected voice.

“Stand away from me, Molly. Don’t come any closer.”

“Sherlock, let me help,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I want to help.”

“You can’t,” he answered sadly. “No one can.” The cloud pulled sharply back into his body and he rubbed at his eyes. “Just… email me the Krakow results, would you?”

“The body’s already out,” she offered. “You don’t want to look at it at all?”

“No,” he muttered, turning his back to walk slowly away from her. “Just send pictures and your report.”

Molly stared after him, totally at a loss for what to do or say. As her last resort, she decided to call DI Lestrade to let him know what happened. Maybe he would know who the mysterious Dr. Watson was and would know how to break Sherlock out of this strange funk he was in. At the very least, maybe he’d have an intriguing case to perk Sherlock up a bit.

 

_____________________________________________________

 

Sherlock eyed the corpse dispassionately, saying very little. Beside him, Lestrade tried to keep as still as possible despite the itching need to say something. Four months now and the man before him was no longer a whirling dervish of deductions. Now he walked into crime scenes rather than blew in. He quietly scanned them with absolutely no melodrama or theatrics. He never spoke to anyone other than Lestrade; four months without insulting any of Lestrade’s crew. Once he’d seen what he needed to, he would simply walk Lestrade through the mechanics of the crime, point them in the correct direction then leave as quietly as he’d arrived. It was saying something when Sally commented that she was actually worried about Sherlock. Of course Lestrade couldn’t explain to them why Sherlock was no longer himself, why all the life and thrill of solving crimes had left him. They didn’t remember John Watson, much less Sherlock’s reliance upon him. They didn’t know of the soul-crushing loss of love Sherlock was enduring so there was no way to explain to them why he was suddenly this way. How sad though that Sherlock had to suffer through this and become a shell before they all started to appreciate that he really was a genius and not a freak.

So it caught Lestrade completely off guard when something actually flared through Sherlock’s eyes.

“This is one of Moriarty’s men.”

“How’dya know?”

“I know, Lestrade.”

“Okay… I know you couldn’t give two fucks about who killed him,” Greg murmured under his breath, “but we do have to make some semblance of looking like we do.”

“You should care who killed him,” Sherlock whispered back. “He wasn’t killed by one of his own. He was in the process of turning around when he was shot. Position of his gun on the floor shows how his arms went outward just before he was hit. He didn’t know his killer but they got close enough to him to catch him off guard anyway.” 

He pointed toward the wound. “Judging by the stab wound, roughly his size and-” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the side, his left side, as though about to ask a question. Greg winced as Sherlock’s eyes went flat again. Even now, he still slipped and looked for John at his side and even now it still stung Greg to see. “Some possibility the killer is a woman. They could have killed him with another shot but they chose to get closer and finish him off with a knife. The tear from the blade indicates a cold type of fury. This is personal. Very personal. If you’ve got to make a show of it, check for wronged women in his past or if he’s had any affairs. Could be the husband or boyfriend of a woman he’s had an affair with.”

“Seems pretty domestic for one of Moriarty’s men,” Greg huffed. Sherlock only shrugged, not really caring.

“This is not a professional hit. Even his people aren’t immune to mundane, ordinary spats. I can’t find it in myself to care enough to shine the really bright torch on his roaches so they’ve become lazy in their roaming. More are likely to get stepped on because of it.”

“Yeah, thanks for that disturbing visual. I feel like I need a shower now.” He looked up at the sullen detective. “You need a lift back home?”

“No, I’ll walk.”

“C’mon, Sherlock, it’s a bit late to catch a cab out this far. I’ll drop ya.”

“I’m fine, Lestrade.”

“Sure ya are,” Greg scoffed, “and you would be right until you fell over frozen solid. I’m not explaining that one to your brother. Get in the car. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t even wrinkle up as he turned on his heel. Greg found himself wishing the detective would just bark out some cutting nastiness. Anything would be better than this lifeless creature.

“Donovan… here’s the canvas. Divvy it up. I’m taking him home.”

________________

Sherlock’s cell pinged at him. He pulled it from his pocket and stared at the message.

**You’re boring me. -JM**

“I don’t care,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, knowing Moriarty likely had a bubble open. Sure enough, his phone pinged again.

**Now you can’t even be bothered to text back? Sherlock, Sherlock. This isn’t what we agreed upon at all. -JM**

“Neither was Mary Morstan,” Sherlock growled. “And yet, she’s still firmly ensconced in my place.”

**But it’s not your place anymore. It never will be again. Accept it. -JM**

“It will always be MY place,” Sherlock replied flatly. “You should have left him alone. This is what you get for your trouble. I don’t care about any of it anymore. Eventually you will slip up and I will end you… and then I will end Mary Morstan… and that will be that.”

**Won’t get you back your pet though. -JM**

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock smiled out the window, no humor touching his eyes, “but being rid of your incessant prodding and freeing John of that whore of yours will at least be some consolation.”

**No it won’t. -JM**

“Oh yes, Jim. It absolutely will.”

____________________________________________

Moriarty’s people were dropping like flies. Mycroft should theoretically be dizzy with elation over it, except he didn’t know who was responsible. For a man of Mycroft’s intelligence and resources not to know something was infuriating… and insulting. He had his suspicions of course, however none of them were panning out with any type of proof. His eyes wandered over the various reports before him. This wasn’t Sherlock’s work. There were no traces of magic. Even when Sherlock did something without casting a spell, his power was such that it would still bleed into the event much the way a woman’s cologne lingered long after she left a room. He couldn’t prevent it. Most couldn’t detect it, but Mycroft’s gift allowed him to know when it was present. It wasn’t there now. Not for any of them. He wondered yet again if The Woman was back in play. This didn’t have her type of motivation written upon it though. She had no qualms about killing someone if she felt cornered, but this seemed excessive by her standards. Still, he couldn’t rule her out entirely; Moriarty could have found out she was still alive. He’d certainly want her head on a plate so she could simply be trying to beat him to the punch.

**You’re not playing nicely, Mr. Holmes. -JM**

Mycroft’s brows rose. He hadn’t had James Moriarty chirping at him for quite a while now.

_That would imply that I am playing at all, James._

**Of course you are. Pissy that baby brother is in a sulk. No one else would dare. -JM**

_You know better. You are merely covering your bases. Dear me, James, who else might you have driven to such determination? One can only fight on so many fronts before the lines weaken…_

**Do take care, Mr. Holmes. I have yet to come at you in earnest. -JM**

_Likewise, James. Be certain of which door you choose to open._

His phone fell silent. What bothered him far more was the idea of a new, as yet unknown player on the table. Mycroft despised new players. They disrupted the normal flow of the playing field, as clearly evidenced by Moriarty’s searching texts. He’d never show his hand that way unless he was truly as clueless as everyone else at the moment. Who could possibly have the resources at hand to evade detection by Moriarty, Sherlock and himself? This didn’t bode well at all. 

There was only one thing to do. Mycroft was a firm believer in his own advice. He was not about to divide his powerbase between two fronts with that kind of juice. Best to sit back and let them rip each other apart and try to contain the fallout.

“Anthea,” he called quietly into the next room, “throw our mystery faction a few more crumbs, will you?”

“Right away, sir.”


	8. Rain Washed Glow

Sebastian Moran thought he might possibly go mad. Jim was pacing and ranting wildly and had been at it for over an hour now. If key players weren’t dropping left and right in the organization, Sebastian might actually be worried about his own ass right now. Then again, losing key players was the whole reason Jim was in such a state. Someone’s head would definitely roll, but it wouldn’t be his. For all his terrifying might, Sebastian knew well enough how to protect himself from Jim’s deadly temper. That didn’t mean it wasn’t imperative that he defuse the atom bomb threatening to really go off right here before him.

“It’s not Sherlock Holmes,” he sighed. “The man is two breaths away from falling into junkieville, Jim. The lights are on but he’s barely home. Losing Watson has him barely functioning these days.”

“He’s still solving cases and you’re forgetting that brother of his! They’re working together somehow on the sly. It has to be them! No one has ever penetrated my network to this level before!”

“None of this has Mycroft’s stamp on it,” Moran tried again. “If this is him, he’s completely changed his M.O. Why would he bother? He doesn’t need to hide that it’s him.”

“He can’t openly come after me,” Jim drawled. “He risks Sherlock by doing so. This is him hiding behind sloppy tactics.”

“Why would he? He made no deal with you. He was pretty clear on that one.” Moran rubbed his eyes wearily. “And this isn’t sloppy, Jim. It’s not pro but it’s neat. Clean kills. Honestly, if Watson weren’t vegged out and being watched by that demon bitch, I’d almost think it could be him.”

“Demon bitch she may be, but she’s thorough,” Jim muttered, still pacing. “He was boring before and even more of a waste of space now. I’ve never understood the appeal…” He stopped pacing suddenly and glared at Moran. “I have things to do. Leave. Now. Go put more pressure on our spies. The information is there, Sebastian. I want it in my hands.”

Moran shrugged, actually fine with that. “Sure, boss.”

____________________________________________

**Things have changed. Your brother is being rather naughty. Time to renegotiate our deal. -JM**

Sherlock reclined on his bed deep in thought, hiding within the Mycroft blackout that was his room. He looked at his phone on the nightstand and snatched it up in annoyance. His lips curled back into a snarl as he tapped out his response. Just as no one could project to him while he was here, he could not project outward either. He could affect anyone within his room, but not beyond.

_Take it up with Mycroft then. Our deal stands as is. -SH_

The message came back too quickly. Of course Moriarty would expect this answer from him. Sherlock could practically hear the sing song voice as he read the new text.

**No no no Sherlock. Our deal relied on you playing nice for your pet to go on breathing. You haven’t really done that but I was overlooking it. That was before my people started dying left and right. Gunnersbury Park. I’ll be there shortly. -JM**

_I won’t. -SH_ He knew the threat would be next but there was a certain manner of things to maintain.

**Then you can enjoy a live showing of Mary fileting your pet. One hour, Sherlock. -JM**

Sherlock knew he didn’t need to answer. He just needed to get to Gunnersbury.  
_____________________________________________

Sherlock picked his way through the old growth behind the EMC building. Moriarty hadn’t specified where in Gunnersbury, but he didn’t have to. It wasn’t his usual type of meeting spot but Sherlock knew his eccentricities well enough to know he’d be near the tower. The lake nearby was convenient and he suspected Moran was hidden in the tower for prime sniper vantage. It was in ruins and practically overgrown, but Jim’s magic would protect him well enough to take a critical shot if needed. Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He had no desire to be shot and dumped in a murky lake where even Mycroft’s cameras couldn’t see. The EMC building had cameras, but their view was blocked by the thick, surrounding tree line.

“Feeling the need for fresh air,” Sherlock called out. “I suppose even a stagnant pond is a step up from an abandoned factory.” _Or the smell of chlorine…_

He frowned when no one answered, but likely Jim was just being his usual, overly dramatic self. It was no mean feat to put Sherlock’s theatrics to shame, but Jim always managed.

“Hide and seek at three a.m., Jim? Bit dull for your tastes, isn’t it? Bit pedestrian?”

Sherlock focused upon the brick octagon. He felt no vibrations from inside but as he zeroed in, he felt a weak set coming from the bushes near the doors. He whispered a few words and the black metal fencing lining the path grew filmy and faint. He walked through it, feeling the tickle of particles giving way then swirling back into place behind him.

There was the faint, strangled sound of someone choking to his left. He whispered again and light gathered about a body prone on the ground. Sherlock’s vision honed in and his stride picked up as he realized who it was.

He bent down and grabbed the back of the man’s coat and rolled him over, luxurious imported wool bunching under his fingers. The face that came into view was streaked with dirt from the ground and bloody froth was oozing from his mouth.

“Who did this,” Sherlock demanded, keeping clear of the spittle that bubbled up fresh as the man coughed again. His lips shone blue even in the faint glow that Sherlock drew forth, and the faint odor of a combination of magical toxins reached his nose.

The nearly lifeless brown eyes squinted up at Sherlock. “You’ll miss me,” he wheezed, his words barely making it past his swelled throat and tongue.

“No, Jim,” Sherlock drawled, his voice dangerously low, “I’m furious over being denied the pleasure of doing it myself.”  
No further words came from Moriarty as his eyes slowly went vacant. Sherlock stared at the mage for a long time before standing and looking around the small clearing.

“Who are you,” he boomed. “Show yourself!”

When no one appeared or responded, Sherlock again whispered a spell. He turned around, peering into the darkness, but his magic had found no target. Whoever killed James Moriarty was already gone and had managed to leave no trail in their wake. Strange that Moran hadn’t been here, otherwise it was likely the body on the ground would be an entirely different one. 

Fury welled up and Sherlock turned to viciously kick at the corpse of his enemy. This had been denied him, but there was something he could still do. Mages had a nasty way of coming back if they were strong enough. He could at least prevent that. He clenched his hands and drew in all the air he could into his lungs. A low humming sound began to resonate around him, steadily gaining volume. No one outside the clearing would hear it as he focused to insulate it, but here it was already beginning to do its damage. A sickening tearing sound started and Moriarty’s body began to tremble. There was a muted cracking and then the slick suction of flesh rending and blood being freed. Moriarty’s head rolled away from his body and rested face down in the muck of a recent rain. Sherlock stumbled backward and nearly fell as cold sweat broke out all over his skin. He shuddered and tried to compose himself as the spell drained him. He staggered to the base of the Gothic Tower and sat down heavily. Pulling his phone from his coat, he dialed for once.

“Get your people over here. Moriarty’s dead.”

_____________________________________________

Just as Moriarty hadn’t needed to specify where he’d be in Gunnersbury, neither had Sherlock needed to disclose his location. Since they both had the gift of magic and were siblings, it was a simple task for Mycroft to find his brother. He didn’t even have to issue any spells, just reach outward. Sherlock’s presence was practically blinding; he had only to travel toward it. 

He grimaced with distaste at the gory aftermath of his brother’s spell. “Why do you insist upon never carrying your blade, brother mine?”

“Clearly I didn’t need it, did I?”

Mycroft turned to study his sibling. The words were impertinent but his brother’s eyes were glassy. He hadn’t moved from the stoop of the tower which spoke volumes to Mycroft.

“Yes, and you’ve drained yourself and created a mess. A clean cut would have been appreciated since I’m the one charged with disposing of him.”

Sherlock stood, defiant as ever, and composed himself. “I’m fine and the mess is easy enough to clear.”

“It’s a biohazard, Sherlock,” Mycroft frowned, his voice hardening. “A blade would have cauterized the flesh as it severed his head. Now I need twice the people I would have otherwise, and you are not fine. You are barely standing and running entirely upon fumes.”

“Your budgetary issues are not my concern,” Sherlock glared, ignoring the point of his health. “I need to find who did this.”

And then he was boiling over with rage again. He stalked toward the body and lashed out, kicking it repeatedly. “Why couldn’t you have done this sooner if you were going to rob me the opportunity,” he roared. “Why did John have to be gone first?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft bellowed, “enough!”

“No it’s not, Mycroft! This was my vengeance to have! Mine!”

Mycroft quickly whispered and Sherlock slumped into his waiting arms. The struggle against him was pitiful at best. “Time for you to start breathing again, Sherlock.” His younger brother shook his head and growled, his head lolling to the side.

“No point.”

“Yes there is,” Mycroft murmured with a rare, soothing tone. “Go. Find John.”

“He won’t see me,” Sherlock moaned. “He wants no part of me.”

“Gently, Sherlock,” the elder Holmes instructed. “Go gently. You need to see him. You said Moran was not here and Morstan is still in play. You need to warn him. Get him away from her and I will put guards on him until we find Moran.”

The spell really had taken its toll on Sherlock because he hadn’t even thought past his own need for vengeance. He mustered his strength and pushed against Mycroft’s hold, this time actually breaking free. His brother seemed to approve his resolve. Sherlock looked down at his watch. He had just enough time to change and meet John at the clinic.

“It is his day to open the clinic, but he will be covering a shift at St. Thomas today. He registered there last week and they approved him immediately. Emergency medicine is his forte after all.”

Sherlock nodded numbly. He’d be quick about it then. He didn’t want to bother John at St. Thomas if it was his first locum shift there. He opened his mouth to speak but Mycroft cut across him, anticipating his question.

“I already have people en route.”

Sherlock frowned but nodded. He would accept Mycroft’s help to keep John safe. He’d likely be doing dull cases for his brother for the foreseeable future but that was fine. John was all that mattered.

_____________________________________________

 

The damn rain was not letting up at all as Sherlock waited outside John’s clinic. The clinic wasn’t open yet (John’s responsibility this morning) so he couldn’t duck into the lobby. Normal hours started at 8:30 am and John was always here at 7:45 so he could settle in and do paperwork before the others arrived. Most showed up about 8:15 with the exception of the newest nurse, a young girl fresh out of nursing school with no established work ethic. John had to lecture her about it a month ago; that much had been clear by the tension in his shoulders as he left for lunch and the slump in hers. The talking to hadn’t helped for more than a week but John obviously hadn’t built up enough temper to have mentioned it again. He wouldn’t fire her; she was a decent nurse that showed up every day she was scheduled. He’d likely even go to bat for her with the other doctors but when John had a bad day it absolutely flowed outward. Nurse Tate would be hating life the next time John had a string of scabies or head lice cases through the office.

John finally appeared around the corner of the building looking deeply distracted and walking sluggishly compared to his normal soldier gait. Distracted wasn’t even accurate as Sherlock looked closer. Dazed was more like it. Unlike the normal opening morning routine, Mary Morstan wasn’t with him. Row then? While Sherlock didn’t wish upset upon John, he couldn’t help but be pleased that John and Mary weren’t getting along that well. He couldn’t be happy about anyone with John. John was his regardless.

“Dr. Watson,” Sherlock greeted him. John startled and turned on him, tense and wide-eyed.

“Sherlock…?” His eyes darted about then settled back to Sherlock as his brows furrowed. “Look this isn’t-”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you,” Sherlock cut in, holding up his hand to plead for patience. “I know you asked me to stay away but… something’s happened and-”

“Are you hurt?”

Sherlock blinked, a bit dazed himself from finding Moriarty. “I… no. No, I’m alright.”

“What in God’s name are you standing out here in the rain for? It’s bloody cold out here, Sherlock.” John fumbled with the umbrella he carried and dug into his pocket for his keys. “Get under here while I unlock the door… in fact, hold this.”

Sherlock took the brolly and tried to hold it steady above them as his body shivered from the chill of the rain. John glanced at him and shook his head. “Whatever happened better be worth hypothermia, Sherlock. I know you made that cut yourself before. I’m not stupid.”

“I know that, Dr. Watson. I just needed to be here when you arrived. You’re covering an emergency doctor’s shift at St. Thomas. As it’s not your normal venue I thought it better not to disturb you there.”

John had just gotten the bolt disengaged. He turned his head to stare at Sherlock, his keys still inside the door’s lock. “I appreciate that but not the stalking.”

“Mycroft told me. I’ve respected your wish for me to stay away until now.” Sherlock shook an errant raindrop from his hair that was threatening to drip into his eye. “I know why you asked it of me and I would not disturb you for something trivial.”

“Your brother is a creep,” John huffed, still staring at him.

“I know that too, Dr. Watson.”

John shoved the door open and held it for Sherlock. “Come on then. I’m not sending you home in this state.” Sherlock collapsed the brolly and gave it a quick shake before entering the building. Behind him, John was shutting off the alarm and locking the door. “What’s with the formal salutation now? I told you John was fine.”

“Before you told me to stay away from you,” Sherlock reminded him as he led Sherlock back to a waiting room. He pulled out a thermal blanket and set it on the table.

“John’s still fine,” the doctor responded with a soft mutter. He turned to Sherlock and gestured, his voice turning to one of authority. “Out of those clothes. I’m going to go grab you a set of our spare scrubs that we keep in case someone gets puked on. Jaffey’s tall too so I know we’ve got some that should fit. I’ll put your coat near the heater to dry out a bit.”

“That really isn’t necessary. I can warm up enough with the blanket while we talk.” Blatant lie. Sherlock was fighting to keep his teeth from chattering and he craved the gentleness of John’s touch, professional or no.

John paused mid-stride to the hallway door and turned. “Yeah, about that-”

“Oh! Dr. Watson! I had no idea you had someone-” 

Sherlock looked up and recognized… Irma…? from his last visit. She paled, clearly recognizing him as well. “Do you need me to call security?”

Sherlock scowled at her but John immediately shook his head. “No, no. He’s fine. I’m just going to keep him from going hypothermic then send him home. He’s going to rest in here for a bit and warm up while his clothes sit by the heater.”

“The dryer in back is working now. We could throw them in there,” she suggested, wanting to get Sherlock out as quickly as possible. John glanced back at Sherlock with a small smirk.

“Yeah, I don’t think we want to be putting his clothes in a dryer, especially a dodgy one.” John caught the returning smirk Sherlock shot him before turning back to Irma. “Something you need?”

“Oh I was going to ask where Mary is,” the older nurse answered. Beyond her, another voice rang out through a mouthful of scone. It was Nurse Tate so likely cranberry from the bakery a block from her flat.

“She sent me a text to call off,” she mumbled. “She never texts me so thought maybe Dr. Watson wasn’t gonna come in before his shift at St. Thomas.”

Both nurses looked at John expectantly but he ignored the question. “Right… I’m gonna go see about a set of scrubs for Mr. Holmes.”

Irma called after him as he practically fled down the hall. “Is she okay?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” he grunted without looking back.

Sherlock took in the exchange, his mind racing over every detail. The row was more serious than he thought yet… John didn’t seem overly upset by it. Annoyed and maybe a bit stunned-

_Oh!_

There was no row. Moriarty was dead and he was the only thing standing between her and Sherlock’s wrath. Even a stupid demon would know to cut their losses and make a run for it and Mary Morstan didn’t strike him as stupid in any way. There was likely heavy tension still brewing between them so John went out last night. It explained his sluggish approach to the clinic. Possibly a hangover but likely just tired. He’d clearly come back to a flat void of her belongings which would be most everything as John wasn’t particularly materialistic. A military trunk and a wide selection of alarming jumpers didn’t really amount to much yet Sherlock would gladly suffer them now; welcome them actually. Cherish them even. Bond films, crap pizza, trash novels, and having his experiments binned before they’d matured… all these things added up to the amazing creature that was John Watson and anything that equaled John was something Sherlock needed back in his life. He would even eat and sleep more.

But first things first. He needed to fully explain to John what happened to land them in this situation in the first place so that he could understand that Mary might now be a danger to him. There was also Moran unaccounted for. He was more likely to take revenge against Sherlock by targeting John, but counting Mary out wasn’t a gamble he would make where John’s safety was concerned. He wished he could go to St. Thomas with John, but he knew John would never tolerate that. Mycroft’s minions were already in place to keep an eye out for him. This was John’s first cover shift at St. Thomas so there should be no problem; he’d never know the difference.

When John returned to the room with a drab pair of slate blue scrubs, Sherlock was nude on the cushioned exam table with his limbs completely enclosed within the thermal blanket. His knees were to his chest and his chin resting upon them. He lifted his nose and mouth from the confines of the blanket and took a closer look at John. Suspicions confirmed, he cleared his throat and spoke as John pulled a folded towel from under his arm.

“Mary left. She gave you no warning.”

John’s hand shot out to slam the door shut. He took a deep breath then let it out slowly before turning around and draping the towel over Sherlock’s dripping curls. He began to vigorously rub the rain from the dark locks. When he spoke, he blatantly ignored Sherlock’s statement.

“Sorry. Your curls aren’t going to look very posh once I’m done but they need to be dried a bit.”

Sherlock couldn’t care less about his hair when John was taking care of him. He gave John a shrug to relay his lack of concern. “So that subject is off the table then?”

John dropped the towel onto the table and held out a scrubs top. “It is here, yeah. I have a long shift ahead of me and I’d rather not get into it before. I also don’t have a lot of time to have a long discussion either so if you could give me the abridged version of why you’re here that would be appreciated.” He wiggled the wad of fabric in his hand. “Put this on then I’ll give you the bottoms. Thin layer under thick holds in more heat. One at a time though. Don’t want you losing all the heat you’ve built up in that blanket.”

“Nor do you wish to see me naked.”

“There is that.”

Sherlock took the top from John and opened his blanket up just enough to get his arms and head through the top. John pulled the blanket closed and held it until Sherlock pulled the fabric down his torso and was gripping the thermal material again. “I was at a crime scene this morning… It was… earth shattering for me. There could be repercussions from the victim’s death…”

“Against you?”

Sherlock dropped his chin back to his knees and sighed. “Or you. You may not remember but I do and your death would… shatter me. They know that.”

John didn’t speak immediately as he put his hand in front of the heat register and frowned. 

“Won’t coming here just reinforce that,” he finally asked then picked up the bottoms. He tucked the folded fabric under his jumper and wrapped his arms around himself to imbue the bottoms with his body heat. Sherlock had a hard time not staring.

“They already know who you are and my regard for you. The only change this brings about is you being aware and alert.” He swallowed back the tightness in his throat. “I need you to be very cautious, John. Let me tie up the loose ends and then you’ll be safe.”

“Until someone else comes along wanting revenge,” John smirked. “Thanks for the warning but I’m going to go get this shift taken care of and then you and I are going to go get dinner so you can fill me in on everything. Once you do that, you’re going to let me help you tie up those loose ends.”

“No-”

“Yes you fucking well are,” John cut across him. “You’re not doing this alone. You’re worried about me? Great! I’ll be with you and we can watch each other’s backs. You don’t exactly have a well-developed sense of self-preservation and I will not forgive you if you get yourself killed trying to protect me.”

Sherlock felt a warmth surge through him that had nothing to do with the blanket surrounding his body. When John pulled the bottoms from under his shirt, Sherlock took them with a faint smile. “I used to think being a loner protected me but you told me that I was wrong… that friends protect us…” He scooted off the table and again John held the blanket closed while Sherlock wriggled into the bottoms. “Does this make us friends then?”

“Could go that way, yeah,” John shrugged. “There’s a lot of things we need to talk about, Sherlock… but not now. Not here.”

“Okay, John.”

“Alright up with you. The vent’s not working well in here. I’m going to park you on the couch in the back lounge. There’s a space heater back there that we can point at you. I want you to get some rest until your clothes dry out. Your suit shouldn’t take more than two or three hours being on the register. When you leave, straight into a cab and home. Stay warm and rested. I’ll be over after my shift.”

“No, I’ll come to you,” Sherlock answered firmly. “I need to speak to Mycroft anyway. I’ll do that and then meet you at St. Thomas.”

“Okay,” John nodded slowly, “but keep it low key… or as low key as you can swirling in with that coat of yours.”

“I will respectfully keep my frenetic thoughts to myself this time,” Sherlock promised and actually meant it. John wasn’t kicking him out or being sour toward him even with Mary leaving so abruptly and Sherlock was going to take it as a good sign. Cautious optimism wasn’t something he was overly familiar with, but this was certainly a time to become better acquainted with it.

“Ta,” John grunted as he led Sherlock back to the lounge. There was a hint of warmth behind it and even though it was subtle, to Sherlock it felt like the summer sun had just erupted from behind the wintery clouds surrounding him. 

The couch was well-worn and comfortable when Sherlock sat down. John diverted to the next room and came back with a second blanket. Sherlock was more than happy to take it; his shoulders were still twitching with chills and becoming a bit achy for it. John stared at Sherlock critically before speaking.

“When did you last eat?”

“What day is it?”

“Right.” 

John again left the room leaving Sherlock to replay John’s responses to his current condition. He was a professional through and through but this was going above and beyond. That felt much more like his John, the one that loved him and fussed over him. Was it because Mary was gone now? Had he felt a pull before and just not wanted to acknowledge it because of being with her? As he’d said before, it wouldn’t have been proper. Not that Sherlock would have cared. He would gladly bend or break any rule for John if he’d agreed to it. 

Was it possible that John was remembering? As much as Sherlock wanted to revel in that possibility, he squashed down the thought almost immediately. He couldn’t indulge in that kind of hope. He had to take John as he was now and hope for the doctor to eventually come back to him on his own terms. Even if John only ever accepted him as a friend, that would be enough. It would be painful, but so much less than having John completely absent from his life. Even casual distance hurt. If he could eventually get John back to 221B Sherlock knew he would be okay with that. He’d gone through enough of his life without sex. If it was the only thing missing in their relationship, then so be it.

The smell wafted into the lounge just before John made his reappearance and Sherlock’s stomach actually growled. The last thing he’d bothered with was one of Mrs. Hudson’s hand pies. Had it really been two days ago? Time blurred now in a way it didn’t before. Not from excitement, but from numbness. Seven months was a long time to be without the man he loved more than anything. It had turned him from a razor edge to a butter knife and while that was still a damn sight sharper than anyone else, it was still pathetic.

“Okay, you’re going to eat this, then get some rest. No argument.”

Sherlock tried not to let his smile go completely goofy as he sniffed at the warmed over pasta rustico. It was like John bringing him Angelo’s after a shift. 

“No argument,” he murmured as his stomach growled again. Whatever hungry beast was making itself known in his gut was having it out with the swarm of butterflies he kept feeling. He wasn’t sure who would end up winning this round. John wanted him to eat though, so probably the butterflies.

“Good,” John nodded, his voice relieved and a bit pleased. “You’re not warming up as quickly as you should because you obviously haven’t eaten. Your body’s a machine and machines need fuel and fluids to run optimally, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a bite of the pasta but paused in his chewing to look up at John. “Machine… interesting choice of wording.”

Something crossed over John’s face and he drew in a slow breath while taking a hesitant seat on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. “Yeah… well… magic isn’t so all encompassing that things never get missed. I took a chance and did some digging online.” He glanced about the lounge, tapping his knee. “I found the blog.”

Sherlock blinked even as the butterflies renewed their assault. “Blog… my blog?”

“No.” John twitched, rolling his fingers closed then open. “John’s.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Awkward?”

“A bit yeah,” John admitted. “Hard to reconcile.”

“I’m sure it was,” Sherlock answered quietly. There were a million things he could say, wanted to say, but he thought it best to just let John say what he was comfortable with.

“You were good together,” John muttered, looking down at his hands. “There was a lot of love in that writing.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped then, along with his shoulders. “I was rubbish as a partner in many ways… but that love was cherished. Hopefully he knew that.” 

“He did,” John assured without wavering. Sherlock’s eyes flicked back up to John. “It’s clear to anyone reading it that he knew. It’s all there.”

“Highly sentimental,” Sherlock whispered, his voice catching.

“Love often is.”

Sherlock swallowed tightly as he looked back down at his food. John’s food. Food he meant to eat for lunch yesterday but got too busy. Food he was now making Sherlock eat rather than taking it to St. Thomas; giving it up for Sherlock’s welfare and likely sticking himself with getting a sandwich from the commissary instead.

“I’m not a man prone to regret,” Sherlock mumbled, stumbling through foreign emotional territory. “I’ve always felt it a wasted emotion… I do have them though and all of them involve pain I’ve caused John. As I said, I’m rubbish with emotions, but I will carry that regret with me for the rest of my life.”

“You did the best you could under the circumstances.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sherlock,” John called quietly, forcing the detective to look up, “I’m still here. I’m still a doctor and still helping people. You’re helping people too. That’s not the best outcome for you, unfortunately, but it still counts as good.”

“Spoken like a man that doesn’t remember,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “It’s a bit different from this side of the fence.”

“I understand that,” John nodded, “but the point is that we both still have options open to us. There’s no options once you’re dead… so thank you for saving my life, Sherlock. I realize I never said that before and I should have.”

“I should have kept you out of that situation to begin with,” Sherlock growled vehemently, setting the food aside. John picked it up and pointedly set it back upon his lap, prompting a deeper scowl.

“The man writing that blog would never have stood for that and you know it. If something had happened to you while he wasn’t there, he’d be the one struggling with regret and anger over not being there.” John stood up and grabbed a bottled water. “Maybe we’re not so different because I’d feel the same if it were me.”

_It was you._

A black mood was nudging at Sherlock but he tried to push it back. John was here and being so much like his John. Sherlock had to cling to that. They were going to meet later and talk more. There was a case and they were going to solve it together. Wasn’t that how it all started to begin with?

“You know… once this is done and dusted, John, I could still use a brilliant doctor to help me at crime scenes…”

“Add that to the list for dinner later,” John smirked and handed him the water bottle. “I’ll ask Lyn to make you some tea but you can sip that while you eat. Nothing cold.”

“Understood,” Sherlock smirked back, feeling a bit lighter albeit chilled. He watched John turn to leave. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

John stared at him over his shoulder before nodding sharply. “You’re welcome,” he answered before leaving for his shift.

Sherlock smiled down at his pasta for a moment then started to dig in.

_____________________________________________

Mary Morstan collapsed the orb and looked over at Sebastian Moran. “St. Thomas, then. Sherlock’ll be crossing on Westminster if he’s going to see Mycroft beforehand. You know what to do.”

“I’ll take care of Holmes,” the sniper grunted, too infuriated to say more than necessary. “Watson’s your problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters. I'll be writing both before I post so that there's no wait in between. The last chapter will be a long one. ;)


	9. Fall In The Deep

_Slow evening. Supervisor ended my shift early to keep his overhead down. Where are you? JW_

Sherlock looked down at his phone and a little trill of elation ran down his spine when he read John’s message. Nervousness also reared its head. Soon they’d sit down to dinner which he’d have to overpower the army of butterflies still residing in his stomach to manage to eat. They’d talk, plot, strategize, and hopefully just talk a lot more about things that had nothing to do with Moriarty or his goons.

**One block from Westminster Bridge. There in a few minutes. -SH**

_Meet you on the bridge then. Almost there myself._

**Staying inside would be safer. We can catch a cab. -SH**

_Don’t coddle me. I need the fresh air. Even the snow feels good._

As much as it panicked Sherlock to think of John exposed and vulnerable, he couldn’t help but smile at the text. He could hear John’s mild irritation so distinctly that John could easily have been speaking directly to him. Always such a grouchy little thing, his John.

**The bridge then. -SH**

A few minutes later Sherlock was striding onto the sidewalk of Westminster Bridge and watching the other end for John. The light had already faded too much to see John with normal vision so Sherlock closed his eyes for one quick second while he whispered below the hearing of those near him. Immediately he felt his body begin to pull toward the direction of St. Thomas. His body was still intimately tied to John’s regardless of whether the doctor remembered him or not. A few words sought out that tie and exploited it, sightlessly guiding Sherlock toward John. He crossed the halfway point and only a handful of steps later caught actual sight of John. The ex-soldier’s body must still recognize Sherlock’s spell because John looked up at that moment. He gave a short nod of acknowledgement as a gentle smile lit his eyes and face.

Sherlock’s breath caught and he actually stopped walking. The man behind him bumped into him, not expecting the sudden stop. He steadied himself and looked back to John who was smirking at the mishap. Something was different now and Sherlock couldn’t get his feet to move again; his mind spinning as he stared at the approaching doctor. 

His doctor…

Something waving in his peripheral drew his focus away from John. He couldn’t help it. Nothing of note had happened on the bridge recently. There was no reason for there to be a length of silk attached to the light post. His eyes followed the stone side rail and he saw a second length attached to the next post. Sherlock stepped closer to the snow-sodden silk to examine it. Black with small white skulls on it. It was a man’s suit tie and Sherlock’s stomach lurched as he realized who it belonged to. He ran to the next light post and pulled himself onto the lamp’s cement base to reach the other piece of fabric. Cream silk with a metal fox pin attached to it, the pin clinking softly against the post as the wind disturbed it.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s head snapped toward John as a deafening crack split the low-traffic quiet of the night. His doctor held a gun, though Sherlock didn’t recognize it as his. Screams from fellow pedestrians went up around him as John picked up his pace to get to him. Another sound reached his ears that he didn’t fully understand at first. What he registered instead was his torso being jolted just enough to throw his precarious balance off. Fire began to spread under his skin and he struggled to keep his grip upon the lamp post. His eyes met John’s and he saw terror in them. That didn’t make sense. John was running toward him now, shoving panicked people aside to reach him.

It didn’t make sense either when the feeling left Sherlock’s fingers and he pitched sideways. His eyes grew heavy as John’s voice screamed out to him and then for a moment there was nothing. He only felt the sense of falling for a split second before it all went black. He didn’t feel the impact or the icy water as it soaked into his clothes and began to pull him under.


	10. Red Eyes

Anywhere but here. Anywhere else but this dank backlot at this moment.

The day had started out with a knot in his stomach that he couldn’t quite figure out. His first instinct was that he’d eaten some bad Thai food. There was also a nasty bug going around and that got second consideration. When he didn’t puke his innards up after an hour, unease began to settle in along with the heavy pit in his gut. Intuition? Instinct? Who really knew, but John Watson hadn’t made it through his time as a soldier by ignoring the feeling. It festered along his spine and made his skin continually prickle with dread. Something fubar was brewing today.

The minute Sherlock uttered Moriarty’s name, John did more than shudder. He stalked straight into the room and told Sherlock they were sitting this one out. An argument of epic proportions ensued and John ultimately gave in when Sherlock made it clear that while he wanted John there with him, there was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to finally take the madman down. Sherlock was a mage and a formidable one at that, so what was he really going to do? Lock him in his room? Handcuff him? John made his opposition known in an explosion of verbal thunder that was likely heard all the way to Angelo’s, but just as there was no way to make Sherlock stay home, there was no way John would allow Sherlock to leave him behind. 

So now they were in this godforsaken abandoned property and it was far too quiet for John’s liking. Sherlock had gone off on his own suddenly and John hadn’t been able to keep up. He got the creeping, suspicious feeling that Sherlock ditched him intentionally this time and he’d been gone too long for John’s comfort. He was about to go looking for the detective again when he heard Sherlock’s distinctive steps behind him. It was a huge relief because if there were clues to be found here, he was unlikely to find them in a timely manner if at all. Looking for clues wasn’t his job. His job was keeping Sherlock just beyond harm’s violent, hateful hand.

"There you are. Look, I searched that whole back lot and there's nothing; no one's been back there in ages, Sherlock.”

Something was in Sherlock’s expression. Something behind his eyes John hadn’t seen in a long while. He was paler than usual and very obviously holding something back. John could have asked him but he knew the look too well and expecting any answers before Sherlock was ready to give them was pure futility. John had to trust that Sherlock would explain when it was necessary for him to know.

"I suspected as such," Sherlock rasped, his voice oddly strained in a way that didn’t set well with John. "I believe I've found something in the maintenance building though." 

He whirled and let his long strides propel him forward and John rolled his eyes heavenward. They were going to have to have another talk about Sherlock’s melodrama when only John was there to witness it. They were beyond that and John was free enough with his praise still that Sherlock could just do what he was best at without the giant flourishes. 

"So you really believe Moriarty is here somewhere?"

"Yes."

Sherlock opened the dilapidated door for John without any further clarification. Stifling a weary sigh, John passed him and entered the room. He expected nothing but dust, debris and the urge to sneeze, and was steeling himself for the inevitable pop quiz Sherlock always insisted upon. 

Which was why it was such a rude shock to see Jim Moriarty standing there calmly as you please with a disgustingly smug smile plastered to his serpentine face. 

“Sherlock!”

_Get away! Run!_

It all snapped into autopilot and John’s body reacted as the words screamed through his brain. He had his gun out and Sherlock behind him before he even really registered the weight of the weapon in his palm. The foggy night made the grip slick but the texture and his steady hand insured it didn’t waver in the least as he pointed it at Moriarty’s head. It was a good thing Sherlock was the one that held it the night of the pool incident otherwise they’d all be dead now because John had no qualms about going out if it meant taking Moriarty with him. Now though, the situation was slightly different and if he could just back Sherlock and himself out of here, that was the better option. 

Moriarty’s face was infuriatingly blasé beyond the sight of John’s Sig Sauer and it turned his stomach in a way that made him clench his fist harder into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat. The little weasel gave a subtle nod, some sort of silent signal. John’s heart sank as two rifles locked loudly behind them. John's grip upon Sherlock tightened as his right hand wavered. His shoulders sagged and he lowered the gun, clicked on the safety and dropped it to the floor. This could not be happening again. It just couldn’t. He’d known. From the moment he’d awakened this morning, he’d known the day would come to something this bad. He wanted to turn and shake the shit right out of Sherlock but he’d be damned if he let Moriarty see any division between them.

"Care to explain the situation or shall I?"

The pit in John’s gut seemed to enlarge as Moriarty's smile grew. "You see John, I've made it clear to Sherlock that the only way you're leaving here alive today is with his cooperation. I'm tired of sharing. It was only mildly irritating before but then you two had to take the next step after the pool. Bit of a miscalculation on my part there, I'll admit, but we're going to fix that little problem right now."

John's hand found Sherlock's, the Belstaff too scratchy and damp under his fingers. He needed the reassuring warmth of Sherlock’s skin but his detective’s hand was terrifyingly cold. "How..? What do you want this time?"

"You... gone. Permanently."

John squared his shoulders. Delusional as ever. "I won't leave him just because you're threatening me. I'll stay as long as he wants me."

"And that would be where his cooperation comes into play, right Sherlock?"

His jaw clenching as he tried to comprehend, John turned to face Sherlock. The detective's eyes were downcast and he would not raise them to meet John's questioning stare. _Shit._

"Sherlock...? What's he talking about?"

"I'm sorry, John."

"No..." John winced inwardly as his voice cracked, splitting the single syllable into two desperate sounds. 

"No. Don't be sorry. Just look at me."

_No, Sherlock, don’t. Not now. Not like this. You promised me._

He finally raised tortured eyes to John. There was practically no color to them as the rims of Sherlock’s eyes reddened. "You can only live if you forget me. Forget us. I would rather that happen than watch you die at his hands, John."

_You idiot. You fucking idiot. No._

"Not going to happen," John snapped. "I won't do it."

"You won't have a choice, John," Sherlock muttered, his hands fisting inside his Belstaff. "He placed the decision with me and I have already agreed. Your memories of me... us... they will be deleted. The spell will also affect those around you that knew me and knew about us."

_Stop this. Stop it right now._

"Sherlock..." John's voice dropped off as he reined himself in, bringing as much control over his temper as he could. Of all the times for Sherlock to block John’s thoughts from his mind, now was not it. "After the pool... when we became a couple... we promised each other... no more manipulations. No more lying. No more unilateral decisions. We are a team. We do this together or not at all."

"I may very well be sick right now," Moriarty drawled and John spun on him.

"You shut your fucking mouth," he snarled, his vision going white with rage as his ears hummed. "You can't win fairly against Sherlock so you're taking the coward's way out. You'll always be second best, James Moriarty."

"If that were true, Sherlock would have found a way to eliminate me already."

John pursed his lips and turned back to Sherlock. His efforts were far better spent there. "This isn't the answer. You're stronger than he is. You could wipe this whole building off the face of the earth if you wanted to. Just do it now. If we go with him, at least we go together but for Godsakes, Sherlock, just take him out!"

_You were ready to do it at the pool. Do it now! Goddamn it, Sherlock! Stop blocking me and listen!_

Sherlock’s voice finally trilled back, sounding uncharacteristically weak. **That was before everything changed, John… with us. Between us. Before I knew what your love really felt like.**

"I can't kill you, John."

A wave of icy dread washed over John, nearly stopping his heart. "You send me back to a life without you and you've done it anyway," he answered flatly.

"You're strong, John," Sherlock whispered. "You'll survive."

"But I won't live," John smiled sadly, his limbs beginning to numb as his heart ached. "Not really."

"Forgive me, John... I can't bury you."

"Who will watch your back, you git," John tried to reason, gripping Sherlock's arms. He wasn’t a brilliant detective right now, just a lost child who had no hope to cling to. He truly thought this was the only way.

"It won't matter. You'll be alive. It will be enough, John."

"Will it?"

Sherlock's eyes clouded then filled. "No."

"Then don't do this!" John gave him a hard shake but Sherlock stepped away, carefully pulling his arms free. He glanced at Moriarty then fixed his eyes back upon John's.

"I... I love you John."

John stared at him as his chest painfully constricted. He wanted to scream at Sherlock, but a panting, miserable laugh bubbled up from his chest instead as he shook his head in disbelief.

"Now you tell me...? Now?"

"I needed you to know," Sherlock gasped, his eyes staring back desperately at John. "At least for a moment, I needed you to know."

"You idiot," John sighed. This was not how it was finally supposed to find its way past Sherlock’s lips. They were supposed to have a night at Angelo’s, brilliant sex, then an awkward, likely crudely-expressed confession which John would selfishly keep all to himself for the rest of their lives. This was horrifically cruel.

"I know. I've always known. I've just been waiting for you to work up the nerve to say so."

"John-"

"I love you too, Sherlock.” He always had. He never said it though because he didn’t want Sherlock to feel obliged to say it back on anyone’s timetable but his own. 

John was forming another attempt at reason when he felt a tiny tap at the crown of his head. Then a trap door seemed to open beneath him because he was falling. It was a fall that stretched forever and he screamed and clawed at the blackness until the feeling left his body. Something caught him just briefly; it cradled him and filled him with warmth. It was only for a blessed moment though, and then he was falling again. His freefall finally halted and a gentle ripple of warm air caressed his face.

_Let your heart remember even if your mind does not…_

Sherlock’s voice. His beautiful, ethereal, infuriating Sherlock. He tried to grab onto the sound and keep it inside his heart, but it slowly slipped away and the darkness took him completely.


	11. Scream So Loud

5:34 am

Cold. Horribly, wrongly cold. John’s teeth chattered violently even before he was remotely aware of anything around him. A voice trickled through to his consciousness, soft but disjointed. Random words flickered around him, ebbing and flowing until they began to form phrases then finally sentences. It still sounded wrong to him though. He tried to open his eyes but they were still insistent upon remaining closed.

“That’s it, John… Listen to me… Follow my voice and open your eyes, love…”

_Wrong!_

The rebellious thought was so forceful as it shot through his mind that he winced and moaned, then curled in on himself. It rolled his body away from the female speaking to him. Instinct, frigid and unyielding, turned to cement in his guts. He wanted nothing to do with the voice. He couldn’t pinpoint why exactly; he only knew deep in his soul that he wanted it away from him. The chills wracking his body were violent enough to be painful, particularly in his chest. He tried to open his eyes again but the light seemed to stab through his skull. Groaning miserably, John tucked his hands beneath his arms in an effort to warm them. When he felt the touch to his arm, a burning sensation raced over his skin even though it was protected by his jacket.

“Don’t!” He barked blindly at the room as he wrenched his arm away. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled slowly until he hit a corner. “Don’t touch me,” he panted, compacting his body as tightly into the space as he could.

“Okay, John… I won’t… Just breathe through it, alright? It’ll pass…”

He hoped to fuck she was right because he couldn’t think this way. All he could focus upon was the pain of the tremors as they caused his body to spasm uncontrollably. It made no practical sense but even though he needed help, he didn’t want it from the woman behind him. Disoriented and angry wasn’t a good combination for anyone but for John Watson, it was particularly bad.

“Get away from me,” he gasped. “Leave me alone!”

“I can’t do that, John,” the voice answered gently. “You took a bad knock to the head. You’re confused and in shock right now. I just need you to breathe. Let your body adjust and try to calm yourself. You’re okay. You just need to calm down.”

John shook his head as much as he was able to tolerate. “Not okay… Not okay...”

“You are. You will be. It’s going to pass soon then you’ll feel better and we can get you home.”

Home was the first notion that appealed to him, even if it was suggested by that dreaded voice. Home and bed. A bed with warm, soft blankets he could burrow into.

“Blankets,” he murmured, unaware he’d spoken aloud.

“Once we get you home, John. You can rest at home.”

Okay. Home. He needed to get home. Home was warm and safe and… there was tea at home… and a fireplace… a warm body to press against…

“Cab,” he blurted. “Call one.”

“We don’t need a cab, love,” she answered, her voice hateful to his ears even though it was quiet and placating. “The car is here. We just need to get you up and walking. I can help you but you have to walk, John.”

The thought of moving was not appealing in the least, but staying put and continuing to freeze was even less appealing. Terrifying actually.

Okay, he had to see to stand and walk. Eyes had to open then. A sharp whine that he didn’t connect to as his own pierced the air as he pried his eyes open. The rapid blinking he had to do against the harsh, florescent bulbs did nothing to help the headache throbbing at the back of his head. Tears dripped from his lashes as he tried to acclimate. The pounding seemed more like a vague warning; something buried inside him nagging incessantly at him that everything was just wrong and that he needed to fix it somehow. He couldn’t fathom how he was supposed to do that when right now he could barely get his body to cooperate with just standing upright.

Taking in the room, John grimaced at the environment he found himself in. How did he end up in this shithole? The room, like everything else, felt wrong. It felt too empty; completely void of life despite the petite blonde woman to his left. 

“Where is he?”

The woman blinked at him curiously. “The guy that hit you? He took off, John.”

_Not him!_

His own vehement thought surprised him and threw him back into a state of sheer confusion. Why did he just ask that? Who did he mean? He couldn’t produce a name but it was right there, niggling at the back of his mind. He just couldn’t make any answers materialize and it was maddening.

 _I’m missing something. Missing someone… They’re important… Why can’t I remember?_

“John… can you stand? Need to get you home.”

Right. Home. Standing. Walking. Right. Okay. He could do this.

A long-destroyed decorative notch in the wall served as a precarious handhold to lever himself to his feet. He swayed as his head spun, and the hands were on him again to steady him. The effect was just the opposite. He nearly fell as fire ripped through his flesh and stole his breath.

“I said don’t touch me,” he screamed, jerking away from her touch. He pressed his forehead to the cold wall and gritted his teeth in agony.

“You’re not steady on your feet yet, John,” she responded quietly. “I’m going to have to help you to the car which means I’ll have to touch you. The pain will pass if you calm yourself down, I promise.”

“Where is he,” John queried again, just as confused by it the second time as the first. It was as though his body had its own mind, feeling and speaking things he didn’t understand.

Or maybe it was his soul.

“I still don’t know who you mean, John,” she answered, holding her hands out to him but not ready for a repeat outburst from him. “Tell me who you mean.”

“Nevermind,” he hissed back at her. “Call me a cab.”

“We’re not leaving my car-”

“I don’t want you near me!”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “Okay, I won’t touch you. I won’t come near you. Where do you want me to tell cabbie to take you?”

John opened his mouth to respond with his anger fully primed… and nothing came out. His mind was blank when he tried to spit out an address. There was simply nothing there. Worse still, he couldn’t even cough up an alternative spot as cover for his lack of information. He began to tremble harder as he reached out for other random facts and found his mind terrifyingly void of anything beyond the mundane.

Behind him, she sighed again. “John, listen to me. You hit. your. head. You are experiencing temporary memory loss and it’s crossing all your wires, dear. Once you get home and rest, everything will come back in its proper place. You’ll have a spectacular headache but that’ll be the worst of it. Please just let me get you home, okay?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Dear. Don’t call me that. Don’t call me anything.”

“I’m sorry. You normally like that.”

“I don’t like it now.”

“Okay, John. Okay. I won’t touch you and I won’t call you anything but your name. Can I get us home now? A hot bath and a bed will do wonders to put it all right again.”

He knew nothing except the freezing ache gripping his body and the warning flares that shot off anytime she spoke or moved, but he didn’t see any alternative at the moment. He had to go along with it all until he could at least function physically. Nothing about this felt right or true but he had to deal with one hurdle at a time.

“Don’t touch me,” he warned again.

“I won’t.”

He turned slowly and stared at her, his weight still leaning against the wall. She looked harmless enough, lovely even, but something inside told him not to put any trust in that. He had nothing to go on but instincts but they’d served him well before.

Or at least he hoped they had.

Carefully pushing away from the wall, he staggered a bit but remained upright this time. Making his way gingerly toward the door, it quickly became clear that traversing the random debris in the room would take a bit more finesse than he currently had. Her hand shot out to steady him, but she only grabbed the excess fabric of the back of his coat. He still flinched, waiting for the excruciating pain but it seemed to require her putting actual pressure against his skin to set it off. He exhaled his relief loudly and allowed her to maintain her grip on him until they reached the small hatchback. John practically collapsed into the passenger seat.

The ID badge in the console of the car declared her Mary Morstan and a nurse. Just putting that little piece of information brought ‘doctor’ sharply into focus and he groaned softly over the relief just that tiny tidbit gave him. He was a doctor. He probably had a reasonable amount of money available then and if he was smart enough to get through med school, he was smart enough to figure this out.

_Observe, John. Observe!_

It wasn’t his voice he heard in his head that time, but it was instantly soothing. He replayed the directive, savoring the deep, rich timbre and wanting desperately to hear it speak again. Was this the man he’d asked about? Was this his voice guiding John somehow?

_Patience facilitates answers… Be open to them._

Okay, he could manage that. He was instantly certain he could manage anything that voice told him to do. Was this man a wizard perhaps? Someone secretly watching over him? Folklore often spoke of bonds between people with no magical skills and people who did. The idea of someone with any kind of magic watching over him and guiding him in secret gave him immeasurable comfort. Regardless of whether the tales were true or not, the voice resonated true in his gut so John was more than ready to put faith in the possibility.

The sense of connection and the promise of answers made it easier to pep talk himself into calming the panic in his mind. He began to take stock of minutiae. The car was clean. Too clean for the year. Mary’s badge stated St. Thomas Hospital. Was she obsessively clean from being a nurse? Despite his surly attitude toward her, she remained patient with him. That was a well-honed skill nurses required if they were going to work at a busy place like St. Thomas. Certainly she had to be professional.

Oh. That word set off a sour taste in his mouth. Why? That should be a respectable trait but the more he focused upon it the more rotten a vibe it gave off. Okay he’d have to file that away for later pondering. He was in no shape to have any nasty tastes, smells or sounds hurled at him. Anything of the sort he recoiled from in sheer self-preservation.

Mary headed north and John immediately began to feel sick to his stomach. 

_South. South!_

The further north she drove, the worse John felt. This was not the direction of home. It couldn’t be. Everything in him wanted to go south. South to tea and homemade biscuits and gentle music. South to the strangely comforting scent of chemicals and mild damp. Creaking stairs and that voice giving warm, gentle chuckles of amusement. Autumn fog clinging to dark curls and tobacco playing hide and seek behind mouthwash hiding behind tea. The resonant voice tickling the nape of his neck and begging his attentions. Quietly, darkly intimate. Home was a sultry, masculine cocoon that shut out the world, not rose hips and patchouli. Cabs and old leather, not new car smell.

“Stop the car!”

Mary opened her mouth to refuse but once she looked at John, she quickly steered the car into an empty parking lot and stopped. John lurched from the car and promptly vomited. He held onto the car for support otherwise his knees would have buckled. Cold sweat broke across his brow and trickled down his back, making him shiver violently again. Throwing up seemed to help the tension in his guts but it did make his head pound worse than before. Mary appeared behind him but was careful not to touch him this time.

“Concussion,” she murmured. “You’ve got medication in your bag at home. Think you’re done?”

South.

 _Don’t worry about south just yet. Be patient, John. You need to regain your strength._

John leaned his temple to the cold metal of the car he already hated but nodded weakly. “Windows down,” he croaked pitifully. “The smell… can’t take it.”

“We can do that,” Mary nodded. “We’re not far though. C’mon up with you.”

“Gimme a minute,” John grunted, not ready to jostle himself just yet. Mary just shook her head and hardened her voice a bit.

“Come on, soldier. Up you get. You’re almost there. Get up.”

Soldier…

 _Yes, Captain Watson. In the car. Get it done._

John squeezed his eyes shut as a feeling of calm pushed aside the confusion and anxiety. The shivering eased off and his spine straightened out, rippling the muscles along his back. His head still hurt but he was no longer in danger of nausea knocking him for a loop. He gave Mary a critical stare before turning and climbing back into the car. John pulled as much air into his lungs as he could before he shut the passenger door. Although he rolled the window partially down, he still breathed shallow as he tried to avoid the offensive air freshener smell.

John initially tried closing his eyes but it brought back the unease in his gut. Watching the scenery pass presented the same problem so he focused upon the side mirror of the car. The light UV tint on the windows rarely did anyone any favours but he looked particularly shitty in the mirror reflection. He just needed to listen to the voice and bide his time. Collect information and rest. Opportunities would present themselves and he would need to be ready for them… and he would be. 

He was a soldier after all.


End file.
